September 2023

10 May 1940

September 2023

August 1940

The Nissen huts arrived, together with winter clothing � boots with rubber covers and wool insoles, warm socks, leather mittens with wool liners � and a delayed bundle of letters. A bag of seven footballs and seven rugger balls appeared; only the army knew why a platoon of thirty men needed fourteen balls, especially since they didn�t have enough .303 rounds for the Vickers machine guns. They even received new shoulder patches: an image of the division�s new emblem, a rather glum polar bear. Morale rose, particularly once the first delivery of coke was received for the Nissen huts� stoves.

It stopped raining. For the first time in weeks, Tom�s platoon was dry.

No sign of the Germans, apart from a lone Focke-Wulf 200 that had flown high overhead one afternoon to great excitement. The codeword �Julius� would mean an attack from the air or sea was taking place, �Caesar� that German soldiers had landed. Fortunately, they had heard nothing from the Roman Emperor. However, an impressive-looking anti-aircraft gun arrived � with its attendant searchlight � to take up its position in the emplacement the men had prepared for it, together with a detachment of Royal Artillery to pamper it.

In addition to the lorries, the platoon had also been equipped with two motorcycles, Royal Enfield 350 ccs. Tom commandeered one of these. He had owned a smaller BSA Blue Star back in England, which he had used to ride around the Yorkshire countryside from the prep school at which he was teaching.

After the problems on the last tactical exercise, Tom wanted to confirm for himself the quality of the roads and any river crossings in the region. But he also wanted to get away from the camp and explore the countryside alone.

He set off along the road that ran along the southern edge of Hvalfj�rdur. The sun was shining, glinting off the fjord�s deep waters. A sleek destroyer lurked at anchor. Behind that, a wall of steep hills rose from the far shore. It was hard to believe that these were the same hills that for the last month had glowered black and grey across dark waters to the camp. On his left stood the mighty bulk of Esja, which formed a formidable barrier between the Whale Fjord and Reykjav�k to the south-west. A barely perceptible pale half-disk of moon hovered in the blue sky ahead.

Autumn had arrived in Iceland. The grass on the hillsides shimmered golden in the sunlight and the leaves of the squat bushes beside the road had turned yellow and crimson. It was more subtle than an English wood in October, but just as beautiful.

He opened the Enfield�s throttle and felt the cool air and the timid yellow sunshine on his cheeks. His spirits rose.

As part of his English degree at Leeds University, Tom had studied Old Norse, as well as Anglo-Saxon. So he knew that Hvalfj�rdur meant Whale Fjord. He had yet to see one, though, and he hadn�t heard of a sighting yet, but he always kept an eye out for a whale spout just in case.

When he came to Selv�k � Seal Bay � he stopped. An old farm made of stone and turf, with a roof upon which thick grass grew, stood just back from the road by a turning. A ribbon of smoke twisted upwards from the central chimney, and Tom could smell peat.

The dwelling looked damp and cold, more like a burrow than a house. But presumably the farm animals and the fire kept it warm.

Out in the fjord, he saw a head break the water�s surface and a seal stared at him, like a curious dog. Then it was gone.

He turned inland along a well-maintained gravel road beside a clear river, the Sel� � Seal River. The river valley was narrow for a stretch, then it turned and opened out into a broad area of lush green fields. Horses grazed, as did some extremely woolly sheep and a dozen or so cattle. They were Icelandic breeds, smaller than their English equivalents, and they came in a variety of colours. The horses watched his motorbike curiously under long fringes of mane; the sheep and the cows seemed less impressed.

He approached a farm, more prosperous than Selv�k, which he knew from his map was called Laxah�ll � Salmon Hill. That was interesting. Tom had bought a rod on his last visit to Reykjav�k and was hopeful of finding somewhere to use it. He had learned to fly fish while teaching at the school in Yorkshire, which had been situated only half a mile from a good trout stream.

Unlike Selv�k, this farmhouse was constructed of white concrete with a red metal roof, although the barns next to it were made of the traditional stone and turf. Not far behind it stood a small white metal church.

Chickens scurried about by the roadside. A woman and a boy were feeding them from a bucket. The woman was tall and red-haired and had quite a figure. She smiled, nudged the boy and pointed to Tom on his bike. Tom waved and the small boy waved back, as did the woman. He noticed that she didn�t wear her hair long and plaited, like most of the women in the countryside Tom had seen, but rather collar length and curled like the girls at home.

The road was comparatively well maintained, but this was Iceland, so there was a pothole, and with his eyes off the road, Tom and his motorcycle found it. The front wheel bucked and twisted and slid, and Tom went over the handlebars. He wasn�t wearing a helmet. He managed to duck his head in time so that his skull only sustained a glancing blow.

He lay on the ground, stunned, but still conscious.

The woman squatted next to him, her concerned expression only a few inches from his face.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. �Ouch,� he said.

She said something in Icelandic. He raised his goggles and tried to focus. He had been teaching himself Icelandic over the last few months, with the help of a dictionary and his Old Norse.

She repeated it. �Are you all right?�

�Yes,� said Tom. �I am just stupid.�

This made her laugh. �You speak Icelandic?�

�No.�

Tom pulled himself to his feet and held his head and his shoulder. He flexed his arm. It hurt, but it wasn�t broken.

He couldn�t believe what an idiot he had been. Ogling a girl and driving right into a pothole.

�I see if my... if my...�

The woman raised her eyebrows.

He searched for the word he was looking for, but gave up � it was beyond his Old Norse. �If my iron stallion is good.�

She laughed. �Iron stallion?�

�Yes. It is a kenning. You know kennings?�

Kennings were the phrases that Norsemen used in the sagas to describe honoured objects. One that Tom had always liked was �falcon perch�, which meant arm. A ship was a �surge horse�, which is probably where Tom got the idea for iron stallion.

�Oh, yes, of course.�

�So what do you call that in Icelandic?� Tom asked, pointing to the motorcycle, splayed out on the edge of the road.

�I think I will call it iron stallion from now on,� said the woman. �Can Gudni stroke your iron stallion?�

�Of course.� Gudni was a small boy with fair hair and big, big blue eyes. Tom took him by the hand and led him to the iron stallion. Tom picked it up from the dirt and examined it. It looked all right, as far as he could tell.

�Do you want to mount the stallion?�

The boy nodded, and Tom lifted him on to the seat, wincing as he did so.

�Your head is bleeding,� said the woman. �Here, let me take a look.�

Tom was happy to bow his head to let her run her fingers through his army-cut hair.

�Blood. Look.� She showed him her fingers, and they were indeed red.

�Beer of wounds,� said Tom.

�Well, just make sure you don�t drink it,� said the woman. �Come into the farm and I will wash it and bandage it.� At least that�s what Tom thought she said � he was guessing the �bandage� bit.

As he followed her and the boy up the slope to the door of the farmhouse, a sprightly man in his fifties approached them from one of the turf barns. He wasn�t very tall, but he looked strong. He sported a well-trimmed, pointed beard � red with streaks of grey � and a classic Icelandic jersey of an intricate blue and white pattern.

�This my father, H�lfd�n,� said the woman. �This is a British soldier who was charging our farm on his iron stallion. He fell off.�

�Cavalry, eh,� said the man, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. �A battle wound, I see.�

The woman said something in Icelandic that was too rapid for Tom to follow, and led him into the farmhouse, indicating that he should take off his boots.

The kitchen was spotless and looked as modern as its British equivalent, although better decorated, with photographs of family members ancient and modern, paintings of landscapes and blue and yellow curtains. A stove kept the room deliciously warm. The woman turned on a tap at the sink and hot water miraculously appeared � Tom hadn�t seen a tap do that for a while. She filled a bowl, took a sponge and dabbed at Tom�s hair.

�What�s your name?� she asked.

�Tom.� He was aware that Icelanders tended to use first names even in polite conversation. Especially in polite conversation. �And yours?�

�Krist�n. And this is my son Gudni.�

�Hello, Gudni.�

�How do you speak Icelandic?�

�I learned Old Norse at university in England. And I have tried to pick up modern Icelandic since I have been here.�

�You are doing well, although your accent is terrible.�

�No, it�s not.�

�Yes, it is.�

�This is how the Vikings spoke.�

Krist�n leaned back. �That�s ridiculous.�

�How do you know?�

�How do you know?�

�I learned it from my professor.�

�And he was a Viking?�

�Maybe. His name was Tolkien. That sounds Viking to me.�

�Not to me. Here. Hold this against your head and I�ll get you some coffee.�

The old farmer pulled a small silver box from his pocket. After offering it to Tom, who shook his head, he extracted a pinch of snuff, threw back his head, snorted several times and then blew his nose loudly on a handkerchief. He smiled with triumph at his performance and again offered the box to Tom, clearly perplexed as to why he wouldn�t want to join in.

Coffee arrived, with plenty of cream, and delicious pastries, in which cinnamon played a big part. As Tom drank and ate, his head cleared. His two hosts were eager to talk to him. Tom dug his Icelandic � English dictionary out of his pocket and did the best he could. He had had some conversational practice with the farmer at T�ftir and with some of the Icelandic workmen who had been drafted in near company HQ at Hvammsv�k to build the naval facilities. He found the farmer H�lfd�n difficult to understand � he spoke in short sharp bursts where the words tumbled over each other. But Krist�n was much easier to follow. She spoke slowly and clearly, and seemed to know when to be patient and wait or repeat herself.

Tom wasn�t bad at languages. He had studied English, German and Latin at his own school in North London, and was even responsible for teaching the Lower Fourth Latin at the Yorkshire prep school. Although many of the words were similar to English, Icelandic � and Old Norse for that matter � were even more difficult than Latin grammatically.

The farmer seemed to enjoy pointing out Tom�s many mistakes; Krist�n was kinder.

Tom surreptitiously scanned the family photographs. There was one of a younger H�lfd�n with a light-haired woman in a wedding dress who was a couple of inches taller than him and looked a lot like Krist�n. Her mother, no doubt.

There was another photo of Krist�n and a young, devilishly good-looking man in a suit. Her husband.

Oh, well. The woman had a son, so she was bound to have a husband.

Tom was enjoying himself, as were his hosts. But after an hour or so, he looked at his watch. �I must go. I should be back at the camp before it gets dark.�

�Why? Can�t your iron stallion see in the dark?� Krist�n asked.

�Of course it can!� said her father. �It�s got that giant light on it.�

�It probably could,� Tom admitted.

�Stay for supper then,� H�lfd�n said.

�Yes, stay,� said Krist�n. �Siggi will be home soon; in fact, he is late. Why don�t you show Tom the farm, Dad, while I get supper ready?�

So, H�lfd�n showed Tom his farm. It was indeed large and prosperous. He proudly showed off a Massey Ferguson tractor, and a gleaming black Model T, although it was clear that the farm�s horses still did most of the work and the transport. Electricity came from a little generator over a small waterfall a hundred yards up the hillside. There were barns made of turf for storing hay and sheltering animals, and even one for drying the down from the eider ducks that nested about the farm. A wooden smoking hut for salmon and lamb stood next to a small stone smithy for making and fixing tools. Chickens, geese and two sheepdogs clucked, strutted and sniffed about the farm.

About a hundred yards away, and a little up the hillside, stood the tiny church, low sunshine glinting off its white metal walls. Tom�s military eye picked it out as a good position from which to command the valley.

�Let me show you the river.�

The Sel� swayed in an easy rhythm as it passed the farm, green meadows on either side.

The water was clear, the current steady.

�Salmon?� Tom asked.

�Yes,� said the farmer. He then said another word that Tom didn�t understand, but after a couple of repetitions and rapid leafing through his dictionary, Tom realized he meant �trout�.

Tom peered into the water in vain. The farmer beckoned him, and together they crouched low and crept along the bank until they crawled on to a boulder and peeked over.

Sure enough, there were three lovely salmon, facing upstream, shimmering a couple of inches underwater, their tails flickering in the current.

Tom heard the sound of hooves and turned to see a small man on a horse trot up along the road from Selv�k � it wasn�t exactly a trot, more the smooth rapid Icelandic gait known as a t�lt.

H�lfd�n waved. The man on the horse acknowledged him, dismounted and removed the saddle and bridle.

�Siggi?� Tom asked.

H�lfd�n nodded.

�Krist�n�s husband?�

This seemed to strike H�lfd�n as very funny indeed. Tom waited, feeling foolish.

�Sigurdur is only eighteen. He is Krist�n�s younger brother. I have another son who is studying abroad at the moment.�

�Oh, I see. Where is her husband?� Tom scanned the farm buildings.

H�lfd�n stopped laughing. �He died. In Reykjav�k. Two years ago. And then my wife died last year. So Krist�n came back to Laxah�ll with little Gudni.�

�Oh, I am sorry.� And Tom was. Any momentary relief that Krist�n was unattached was quickly squashed by sympathy for the two of them. �It is good you can help each other.�

�Yes,� H�lfd�n said. �My wife would be pleased that Krist�n came back. But I worry that she is getting bored.�

The blue eyes recovered their twinkle. �Come in. She is a very good cook.�

Supper was cold � delicious dark red smoked lamb on rye bread with some cheese. And skyr and berries for pudding � skyr being a cross between curd cheese and yoghurt.

Siggi was small and dark but looked a strong fellow. Physically, he reminded Tom of Private Sowerby, although he was a lot less cheerful. In fact, he was a thoroughly sullen youth. Tom wasn�t impressed, and his sister and father seemed embarrassed.

�Siggi is going to start Bretavinnan next week,� Krist�n said. �At the new naval base.�

�Oh, yes,� said Tom. He knew Bretavinnan meant work for the British.

Siggi didn�t seem particularly enthused by the idea.

�It�s well paid,� said H�lfd�n. Tom managed to suppress a smile. The Icelandic labourers at the naval base had been complaining and even threatening to strike because they were being paid less than their compatriots in Reykjav�k.

�I will look out for you next time I am there,� said Tom.

Siggi grunted.

After dinner was over, Tom once again took his leave.

�Please come again,� said H�lfd�n.

�Yes, do come,� said Krist�n.

�Do you like to fish?� H�lfd�n asked.

Tom beamed. �Yes, I do. In fact, I recently bought myself a rod.�

�Well, you are welcome to fish here.�

�That is very kind,� said Tom.

�Shouldn�t he pay?� said Siggi.

H�lfd�n looked at his son sharply. Undercutting his father�s hospitality didn�t go down well.

But Krist�n took her brother�s side. �Yes, absolutely he should pay. That way he can come as often as he likes.�

H�lfd�n raised his eyebrows. Tom sort of followed her logic: if he paid, he wouldn�t have to wait for an invitation. That implied that Krist�n wanted him to come again. More than once.

Siggi looked at her in something close to horror.

Krist�n appeared momentarily confused, as if she had just said something she didn�t mean to, but then she brazened it out. She suggested a price. Tom counter-offered. There was a little haggling and then the deal was done.

Tom left the farm on his iron stallion, gingerly guiding it around the potholes in the dark until he reached the fjord. Pale moonlight laid a shimmering yellow path towards him over its deep waters. The sky above the mountains to the north was tinged with shimmering green brushstrokes of northern lights.

He realized he was grinning, and he let out a loud whoop on the empty road, just because he felt like it.

September 2023

�Now, are you sure you don�t want to stop and interview some hidden people?� Vigd�s said with a grin as they were driving along the side of the fjord back to Reykjav�k. �For a moment there I thought we were back in Bolungarv�k. Same MO.�

Several years before, Magnus had been involved in a case in the West Fjords, where someone had been killed in a landslide and the locals had been adamant that the hidden people had done it, hidden people being invisible inhabitants of the Icelandic countryside with special powers.

�I liked that old woman,� Magnus said. �Refreshingly down to earth. Unlike her son.�

�Do you want me to check missing persons?�

�Not yet. Hopefully, Edda will soon be able to give us a steer on which century we�re looking at.�

�Or find the bullet that killed them,� Vigd�s said. �Shall we check out the Laxah�ll brother and sister?�

�Yes. Let�s go and see that Gudni now. And I�ll send the Englishwoman an email � see if she can shed a light on things.�

Magnus was driving along the edge of Hvalfj�rdur. �It�s hard to imagine now, but you know this fjord was crammed with Allied ships during the war?� he said. �They used this as a staging point for the Arctic convoys to Russia. And as a base for attacking German U-boats.�

Vigd�s groaned. �Time for another history lecture. I didn�t know you did World War Two as well as the sagas.�

�I�m just saying there would have been a lot of British servicemen around here. And Americans after 1941. Although if the brother and sister were killed at the beginning of the war, that would be before most of the facilities were built.�

Vigd�s was about to reply when her phone chirped. �Hi, Olla... What?... Are you sure?... Is Erla OK?... I�m coming home right now.�

�What is it?� said Magnus.

�My neighbour. She saw Mum tip over the pushchair when she took Erla outside. She thinks she�s drunk.�

Magnus put his foot down.

October 1940

September 2023

Gudni lived in a tiny apartment in a modern block on the crest of the hill at Grafarholt. As he rang the bell and waited for a response, Magnus looked out over a terrific view of Reykjav�k, of the bay and of Mount Esja on the other side of Kollafj�rdur, slim clouds skimming its elongated summit, which was dusted with a sprinkling of snow. At that moment, the sun was painting Esja in a warm golden glow, but of course that could, and probably would, change within the hour.

When Magnus was old, he wouldn�t mind spending his last years watching Esja.

Magnus had done some calculations, and if Fr�da�s story was accurate, Gudni must be in his late eighties or early nineties. He looked younger � old, but not ancient. He was balding with long strands of white hair hanging over his ears. His small blue eyes were set close together and peered out through round glasses. Although his legs were stiff and his steps tiny, his movements were quick as he fetched Magnus a cup of coffee.

He was clearly excited about an unexplained visit from the police. And not just the police, a detective.

The flat was a shrine to the English football club Tottenham Hotspur. Posters, photographs, even a framed white shirt bearing the number 10 and the name �Hoddle�. Gudni took his coffee in a Spurs mug, although Magnus�s was emblazoned �sland Euro 2016.

�Arsenal supporter, are you?� Magnus asked. He didn�t know much about English football, but he did know who Spurs� big London rival was.

�How did you guess?� said Gudni. He looked around the room. �I know it�s a bit over the top. Way over the top. When my wife was alive I was only allowed one team photo in the toilet. But, a couple of years after she died, I thought, why not?�

�I�m an American football guy myself,� said Magnus. �The Patriots.�

�That game�s a mystery to me,� said Gudni. Then his smile disappeared. �Oh, I know what you�re here for.� The excitement seemed to leave him and his brows knitted. �It�s my mother, isn�t it?�

Magnus nodded.

�Have you found her body?�

�It�s too early to say for sure, but we may have. We need to do some forensic analysis to be certain.�

Gudni closed his eyes. �I knew this would happen one day. Where is she?�

�In a gully between Selv�k and Laxah�ll farms.�

�Gerdur�s Hollow?�

Magnus nodded.

�That figures.�

�Why does that figure?� said Magnus.

�Oh, it�s near the farm. A good place to hide a body, and there was a landslide there during the war, which could be why it stayed hidden for so many years. There�s also all that superstitious crap about a witch being buried there. We never believed any of that, but they did at Selv�k.�

�They certainly do.�

�Did you find Uncle Marteinn too?�

Magnus nodded.

�You�ve spoken to Fr�da and her son?�

�We have. J�n was still freaked out by the story. Fr�da less so.�

�Yeah. Fr�da had a lot of common sense.�

�I suspect she still does. But the disappearance happened before she was born and she was unclear about the details. Can you fill me in?�

�I can try,� said Gudni. �It happened in 1940. I was only six at the time. I can remember it very well, of course, it�s one of my most abiding early memories, but I don�t know the details of what went on.�

�Tell me what you do know.�

�I was in bed. There were three other people living in the house at that time: my mother Krist�n, her brother Marteinn and my grandfather H�lfd�n. Grandpa was out that day; I think he had been to Akranes. So it was just Mum and Uncle Marteinn. Grandpa came home late that evening and they weren�t there.�

�No note or anything as to where they had gone?�

�Nothing. Grandpa woke me up when he got home, but I hadn�t heard anything. I went back to sleep, but when I got up the next morning, they still hadn�t shown up and Grandpa was in a right state. He dropped me off at Selv�k and organized search parties. They didn�t find them. I think he got the British involved � there was a camp fairly close and then the big naval base further up the fjord. But once again, nothing.�

�Why didn�t they find the bodies if they were just in Gerdur�s Hollow?�

Gudni shrugged. �Maybe they were well hidden?� He knitted his brow. �Thinking about it, it was probably the farmer at Selv�k who was responsible for searching his own land. That would have been Fr�da�s father, and he was the most superstitious of the lot of them.�

�So he may not have searched the hollow thoroughly?�

�It�s just a guess. Is there any sign how they died? Were they caught by a landslide? Or was it something else?�

Magnus paused. �They were shot,� he said. �We found a bullet hole in one of the skulls. We assume the other victim was shot as well.�

That hit home as Magnus had feared it might. Gudni crumpled, and suddenly looked every one of his ninety or so years. A tear emerged in one eye. �I�m sorry,� he said. Then more tears came and he began to sob.

Magnus hesitated and then got up to place a hand on the old man�s arm.

Gudni smiled. �I don�t know why I�m doing this. I thought I had given up crying over Mum years ago.�

Back in Boston, Magnus had broken the bad news of the murder of a loved one to dozens of relatives over the years. That wasn�t the worst part. The worst part was that the breaking of bad news was usually immediately followed up by intrusive questioning about the victim and their secrets.

It never got easier. Each relative was different, each suffering special. No matter how many times Magnus saw it, he never got used to it; it was what spurred him on to bring the victims� murderers to justice.

He sat back in the sofa and waited.

After a minute, Gudni wiped his nose and exhaled. �Huh. It�s probably best I got that out of my system. Do you have any more questions?�

�Yes. There was another brother, wasn�t there? He would have been your uncle. Where was he?�

�Oh, yes. Uncle Siggi. He was working at the naval base at Hvammsv�k, further up the fjord, so he wasn�t home when it happened. But he came back to help with the search.�

�Now that you know your mother and your uncle were murdered, do you have any idea who might have done it? Were there any theories in the family that you can remember?�

�No. Uncle Siggi thought the British were involved somehow. The farmer at Selv�k blamed it on Gerdur, which is ironic given he obviously didn�t search her hollow very thoroughly. And Grandpa was just destroyed. He said he didn�t understand it. His wife had died a couple of years earlier, as had my dad, who I scarcely remember. This was the final straw. He never recovered.�

�And what happened to you?� said Magnus.

�Grandpa looked after me, with Uncle Siggi. Siggi got married to Sunna from a farm near Akranes, who was really nice to me. Then Siggi ran off with Fr�da from Selv�k and he got kicked out by Grandpa. Sunna stayed on with us until Grandpa sold the farm � in about 1970, I think. But by that stage, I was out of the house.�

�I assume none of these people are still alive?�

Gudni shook his dead. �Just me. And Fr�da, but she wasn�t born until the end of the war.�

Magnus scribbled some notes.

�If the bodies are theirs,� Gudni said, �and if they were murdered, what will happen?�

�The district medical officer will prepare a death certificate and give it to the sheriff. And then there will be a funeral. You�re the next of kin, so you�ll get a copy of the certificate.�

�But no murder investigation?�

Magnus shook his head. �Not eighty years later, when the murderer � whoever he was � is long dead. But can I take a DNA sample from you? That will be the best way to confirm that the body is your mother.�

Gudni nodded. Magnus had a kit with him. If there was a chance that the sample could be used in a trial, he would have had the swab taken at the station, but for the district medical officer and the sheriff, one taken by him in Gudni�s flat would be fine.

As Gudni let Magnus out of his apartment, he paused. �If you do figure out who killed her, you will let me know, won�t you?�

October 1940

They took a break and went outside for some fresh air. Pybus-Smith lit his pipe, and Tom a cigarette.

�So how is Gunnar?� Pybus-Smith asked.

�From what I can tell, his translations are faithful. I�m impressed.�

Pybus-Smith smiled. �Excellent. He�s a good man; I thought I could trust him. I�m glad to have it confirmed.� He drew on his pipe, cupping it in his hand to protect it from the persistent breeze.

�They�re basically a good lot, the Icelanders,� he said. �I�m not sure how I would feel if a bunch of foreigners showed up in my capital city, even if they had the best of intentions. So, I�m not surprised there are some bad apples who would rather we were gone. Doesn�t excuse it, though, especially if they are hoping for Jerry to get rid of us.�

They smoked in silence for a moment, watching the women attacking the fish on the quayside. It looked hard work.

�Sir?�

�Yes?�

�It�s difficult to rely on what the passengers are telling us about themselves, isn�t it? I mean, we ask them questions, but if any of them really were German spies they would just lie to us, wouldn�t they?�

�They�d try,� said Pybus-Smith. �We might rumble them anyhow. But I take your point.�

�What if we asked them about the other passengers on the ship? They must know each other very well by now, having travelled for a month together. They probably knew each other anyway in Copenhagen or back in Iceland. We could ask if there are any Nazi sympathizers on the boat. Or members of the Icelandic Nazi party.�

�Or communists?�

�Or communists,� Tom conceded.

�They could still lie to us. Cover for their friends.�

�If they were friends. But they�ve all been under German rule in Denmark. They�re glad to be here not there. I�m sure some of them would be happy to tell us about any Nazis if we asked in the right way.� By �in the right way� Tom meant nicely.

�I see what you mean,� said Pybus-Smith, puffing at his pipe. �Good idea. Let�s try it. And we�ve still got a lot of passengers to go, so you take interviews by yourself from now on.�

�Yes, sir.� Given the state of Tom�s Icelandic, the interviews might be a little stilted, but he would cope.

�By the way, I managed to get you into the Hotel Borg tonight.�

�I know, sir, thank you.�

�Shall we have a drink in the bar when we�ve finished here? I�d like to chat to you about a little matter.�

�Right you are, sir.� He wondered what the �little matter� was. He could guess, but he hoped he was wrong.

Neville sauntered off, and Tom finished his cigarette. The sun had put in a brief ten-minute appearance, and Tom wanted to enjoy it.

�G�dan daginn.�

Tom recognized the voice and turned to see Krist�n smiling at him, dressed in a smart skirt and jacket, her hair nicely curled under a stylish green hat.

�What are you doing here?� he asked.

�I�m here to meet Marteinn. He was on board that ship.�

�I know,� said Tom, sheepishly.

�You know?�

�Yes, I interviewed him. I�m afraid he won�t be ready to leave today. We are keeping him overnight.�

Krist�n frowned. �Keeping him overnight? Why?�

�We think he might be a spy.�

Krist�n opened her mouth in horror. �For the Germans! That�s ridiculous. Why?�

�Because he�s a communist.�

�He�s not a communist. A socialist, maybe, but not a communist.�

�He told us he�d joined the party in Denmark.�

�Really? Anyway, so what? That doesn�t mean he�s a German spy, does it? You must be crazy, Tom.�

�I know it doesn�t,� said Tom. �But Captain Pybus-Smith thinks communists are suspicious.�

�And couldn�t you tell him he�s an idiot?�

Tom smiled. �I couldn�t. I did say I knew Marteinn�s family and that your father was very civil to me. I recommended we release him.�

Krist�n controlled her anger. �I�m sure you did. Is this captain the man you were talking to just now? With the thin moustache and walrus teeth?�

Tom grinned at the description. �That�s him.�

�Hm. Well, you had better let my brother go tomorrow morning.�

�I�ll try.� If Tom had thought for a moment that Marteinn was a Nazi spy, he would have been more circumspect. But it was clear he wasn�t. He was just honest, that was his problem.

�Look, I�m staying at the H�tel Borg. Do you want to join me for a drink later?�

�Will that captain be there?�

�Yes,� said Tom. �But that may be a chance for you to talk him round, as a member of Marteinn�s family. I�ll translate. With Ari the Learned�s help.� He waved his faithful dictionary.

�Maybe,� said Krist�n doubtfully. �I�ll think about it.�

With that, she was gone, and Tom returned to the storage shed and more interviews.

September 2023

�Do you have a firm ID of the victims, Magn�s?�

Detective Superintendent Thelma Reynisd�ttir latched her blue no-bullshit eyes on Magnus. She was a tough cop, but she trusted her detective inspector. Mostly. They had been working together long enough that they knew each other�s strengths. And weaknesses.

�Pretty firm. They are probably Krist�n H�lfd�nsd�ttir and her brother Marteinn. They went missing on 28 October 1940 from the farm at Laxah�ll which is only a kilometre away from where the bodies were discovered. I dug the old case file out. There was a major search, but no theory as to why they disappeared or whether they had been killed � some locals blamed the British, but with no real evidence. A shotgun was missing from the farm. A neighbour said he saw a large blue car driving up the road towards the farm, but the vehicle was never identified. The police got assistance from the British Army in the search and liaised with the British in the investigation, but they didn�t come up with anything.�

Magnus checked his notes. �One of the skulls had a bullet hole in it, and we found a bullet with the other skeleton, so it�s likely they were both shot. The bullet is a thirty-eight millimetre, of the kind that was used in an Enfield Number Two revolver. Those were standard issue for officers in the British Army at the time.�

�Interesting. Anything on the age of the bones?�

�The forensic pathologist won�t say � the timing of skeletonization is tricky. I�m getting them radiocarbon-dated at the university; that should give us some idea. One is a tall young woman and one a shortish young man, which fits the brother and sister theory.�

�Any of the family still alive?�

�Just Krist�n�s son, Gudni. He was six when she went missing. He says that no one knew what had happened, although there were rumours the British Army may have had something to do with it. I took a sample of Gudni�s DNA, which should confirm the bones belong to his close relatives.� Unfortunately, the DNA had to be sent to a lab in Sweden for analysis, which could take time.

Thelma nodded. �So, assuming your ID is correct, we�re looking at a murder in 1940, with no obvious suspects and no way of finding any?�

�I suppose that�s right. It could have been a British officer, but then again an Icelander could have got hold of an Enfield revolver somehow during the war.�

�Whoever did kill them is dead by now, right? The six-year-old can�t have done it.�

�Right.�

Thelma leaned back in her chair, and then gave Magnus one of her piercing stares.

�This case piques your curiosity, Magn�s.�

Magnus nodded. �It does.�

�Thought so. But this job isn�t for your amusement. I don�t want you spending any more resources on it than are necessary. If the DNA analysis shows that the bodies are Gudni�s relatives, then the case is closed. I suppose, if it doesn�t, or if the carbon dating suggests the bones are newer, you should investigate further. But something bothers me.�

�Oh, yes?�

�If the press finds out it was probably a British bullet that killed these people, especially the woman, it might stir up all kinds of trouble. People will ask us who we think killed her. Then they�ll ask the British, who will get defensive. The newspapers might dredge up �the Situation�.� Thelma nodded to herself. �This could waste an enormous amount of time.�

�I see what you mean,� said Magnus. �But there will be a death certificate. And probably a funeral. Local people will know who the victims were and that they were murdered.�

�Yes, but the fewer details they have, the better. The less we know, the less we can tell them. And I don�t think anyone needs to know about the bullet possibly being British, do you?�

�Not even the son?�

�Better if he doesn�t, don�t you think? And certainly don�t tell the press. This can be either an interesting small story or a pain-in-the-arse big story. Let�s make sure it�s a small story, eh?�

To some extent, Magnus saw Thelma�s point, although he wasn�t convinced that anyone really would draw a link to �the Situation�. And, whilst this was hardly a live murder investigation, it was a matter of legitimate historical interest. He wasn�t sure the police should be hiding information from historians.

Arguing with Thelma was always a bad idea. And you could say that solving this crime was a job for historians rather than policemen.

�I�ll let you know when we hear back from Sweden on the DNA, and then I�ll wrap the case up,� Magnus said.

Back at his desk, there was indeed a message from a reporter at Morgunbladid. Magnus called him back and confirmed that two bodies had been found which had been shot. At this stage, he wouldn�t speculate on whose the bodies were, but it was likely they were at least two years old, probably much older.

Once Morgunbladid published the story online and in the newspaper tomorrow morning, there would be interest from the other news outlets: newspapers, news websites and TV. That would probably die down and then there would be another flurry of interest when the skeletons were carbon-dated and they received DNA ID confirmation from Sweden.

He had his instructions.

But Thelma was right, he was curious. How could he not be? Someone had murdered that brother and sister in cold blood, and likely as not it had been a British officer.

Magnus didn�t know much about the British occupation of Iceland in the 1940s. He knew some �spies� had been arrested, and there had been a couple of inadvertent shootings of Icelanders who strayed into camps at night by the Americans who took over from the British, but this sounded like murder.

Why would the British shoot two civilians?

Vigd�s arrived. She looked upset, unsurprisingly.

�How�s your mother?� Magnus asked.

�Better than I feared,� Vigd�s said. �She�s sober and she�s at work. I was afraid I would find her still drinking at home.�

�So she was drunk with Erla?�

Vigd�s nodded.

�I�m sorry, Vigd�s. I know you�ve tried so hard. But, at the end of the day, it�s up to her, isn�t it?�

Magnus�s own mother had been an alcoholic. She had died in a car crash while drunk when he was twelve � that�s why he and his brother had moved to America to be with their Icelandic father. That experience hadn�t given him any insight into how to deal with alcoholics, but it had certainly taught him the pain it could bring to families.

Vigd�s frowned. She looked around the room at the other police officers tapping at keyboards or staring at computer screens. �Can we get a coffee? I need your advice.�

Vigd�s had gone home early, and Magnus was tidying up his desk ready to follow her when his phone pinged.

It was a text from his brother Ollie back in Boston: a photo of Tosci�s Ice Cream in Cambridge � no comment. They had gone there as kids; Ollie, in particular, loved the place. Magnus could still taste the mint chocolate chip which had been his own go-to flavour.

Magnus selected a bland emoji � he wasn�t very good at emojis � and replied.

Ollie had started sending him the odd joke or picture of places from their childhood. Thirteen years before, when Magnus had finally discovered that Ollie had been indirectly implicated in their father�s murder, Ollie had gone to jail. He had been out for years now, but the brothers had barely spoken. Until Ollie had shown up in Iceland unannounced with a couple of buddies, just after one of the COVID lockdowns was lifted. The group was on their way to London, which had also just opened up, and had decided to travel via Iceland.

Magnus, Ollie and his two friends, Ryan and Cal, together with Vigd�s, had gone out for a traditional Friday night on the town in Reykjav�k.

It was only the second time Ollie had been back to Iceland since he and Magnus had left as kids to join their father in Boston. Ollie claimed that when his friends had suggested that they stop off in the land of Ollie�s birth, he had thought, why not?

Perhaps that was true. Or perhaps Ollie had welcomed the excuse to see his brother.

A lot of alcohol had been drunk; nothing of any consequence had been said. But Magnus enjoyed spending some time with his little brother having some fun.

It was about 1 a.m. and they were in a crowded bar off Laugavegur. Vigd�s had gone to the bathroom � she was as drunk as the rest of them. Ollie�s two buddies had found a pair of women who seemed to find their jokes amusing.

�Do you think they�ll get lucky?� Ollie asked Magnus with a grin.

Magnus glanced at the foursome and nodded. �I�m sure they�ll get lucky. Unless they fall over before they get the chance.�

Ollie laughed. He took a gulp of his beer and nodded at Vigd�s�s empty chair. �She�s hot,� he said.

�She�s a nice woman,� Magnus said primly. �And a good friend.�

�She wants you so bad,� said Ollie.

Magnus snorted. �No, she doesn�t. We�ve been working together for years. We know each other too well for that.�

�Oh yes, she does,� said Ollie. �I can tell. And if I were you, I�d let her.�

�You do talk shit,� Magnus said. But for a moment he wondered if Ollie had a point. Then he remembered it was always a mistake to wonder if Ollie had a point. �I have a girlfriend, Ollie.�

�Everyone has a girlfriend. Or a wife. Ryan has a wife and Cal a long-term girlfriend. Doesn�t matter. Especially here, from what I�ve read.�

�Slurs,� Magnus slurred.

�Says you.�

Ollie leaned over and tried to focus on his brother. �Do you know at one point I was worth almost ten million dollars?�

�Crypto?�

�That�s right.�

�I thought everyone had lost their shirt on that?�

�Not everyone. You gotta know when to get in and when to get out.�

�And you did?�

Ollie grinned and waggled his head. �Not quite. But I�m still in the game. Just.�

�Well, thanks for the warning on Thomocoin.� Magnus had asked Ollie about the cryptocurrency the year before during an investigation in North Iceland and Ollie, quite curtly, had warned him off it.

�I was right,� said Ollie. �Wasn�t I? You know it blew up?

�I did know that,� said Magnus with a wry smile.

�You see? I keep my eyes out for you. Just like you did for me.�

Recalling that evening two years before, Magnus felt an unexpected swirl of sentiment towards his little brother.

For years, Magnus had looked after Ollie. Then he had rejected him � they had rejected each other. Ollie�s partial involvement in the death of their father was unforgivable, as was, in Ollie�s mind, Magnus testifying at his trial.

But there were just the two of them.

Perhaps anything was forgivable eventually.

If he and Ingileif did get married, would he invite Ollie to the wedding? Would Ollie come?

The more important question was: should he and Ingileif get married? He had to face up to that one.

His phone rang. It was the front desk: a British woman wanted to see him. She had given her name as Louisa Sugarman.

The Englishwoman whose email address Fr�da had given him.

Interesting.

A woman in her sixties with short, expensively cut blonde hair was waiting for him. Even though she was wearing the classic tourist garb of rain jacket and jeans, she had poise as she smiled, held out her hand and fixed him with an intelligent and authoritative gaze.

�Inspector Ragnarsson?� she said. �You sent me an email yesterday saying you had found Krist�n H�lfd�nsd�ttir�s remains. I thought I�d reply in person.�

Magnus raised his eyebrows. �Were you in Iceland? I assumed you were in England.�

�I was. But I jumped on a plane immediately.�

Magnus was intrigued. �Well, let�s get us some coffee and you can tell me why.�

He led her upstairs to his desk via the coffee machine. �When did you arrive?� he asked her.

�Just a couple of hours ago. I dumped my suitcase at my Airbnb and came straight here. I wanted to get you before you went home.�

�What�s the rush? The poor woman has been dead for eighty years. Why not just send me an email, or call?�

The woman sipped her coffee, examining Magnus with steady brown eyes.

�Krist�n�s death is important to me,� she said. �I want to find answers. And I suspect that the best way to find them is to come here myself to get them.�

�That�s probably true. But why is this woman so important to you? She must have died many years before you were born. Something to do with your father, Fr�da said?�

�That�s right. She was very important to my father. And information has come to my attention since my poor father died that concerns me.�

�Information about her death.�

�Information about the death of the man who killed her.�

�You know who killed her?�

�I do.�

Magnus studied the woman opposite him. She could be a time-waster. Or a fantasist. She didn�t look like a time-waster or fantasist.

�What do you do in England, Mrs Sugarman?� he asked.

�Louisa, please.�

�And I�m Magnus. You probably know we always use first names in Iceland.�

�Are you American? You speak perfect English. American English.�

�No, I�m an Icelander, but I spent many years there.�

Louisa nodded. �To answer your question, I�m retired now. I was a lawyer. Not your sort of law, I�m afraid. Company law.�

�Which firm?� Magnus asked.

�Seabrook Renwick,� Louisa said.

�I�ve heard of it.� That was one of the big ones. Magnus�s old girlfriend Colby had been a corporate lawyer in Boston and he had spent too much time with her ambitious lawyer friends, so he knew a bit about the big international law firms. They never got anywhere near a police station. �Were you a partner, by any chance?�

�I was,� said Louisa, with a hint of a smile, acknowledging that she was establishing her credibility.

�You�ve come here to tell me a story,� Magnus said. �So tell it.�

�My father�s name was Tom Marks. He was a schoolmaster at a small prep school in Yorkshire � that�s a kind of private elementary school. He saw war coming and joined the territorial army. He was shipped off to Iceland shortly after the British invaded in 1940 and was stationed in Hvalfj�rdur, not too far from the farm at Laxah�ll.�

�Which is where Krist�n lived.�

�That�s correct. He met her. They fell in love. Or at least he fell in love with her. He says she loved him too, and I�ve no reason to doubt that.�

�He told you this?�

�Yes. A couple of years after my mother died. It was the late seventies; I had just graduated from university. He wanted to take me on a trip to Iceland with him, so we went for a week. We went to Hvalfj�rdur. He took me to Laxah�ll � he was hoping to see Krist�n�s father, H�lfd�n, but he had sold the farm a few years before.�

�Did you both go to Selv�k?�

�Not then,� said Louisa. �But I did go alone a few years ago. That�s when I met Fr�da.�

�Sorry. Carry on,� said Magnus.

�So, on this trip, my father told me all about a girl he had met during the war, Krist�n, how he had loved her and how he hoped to marry her and bring her back to England. This was all well before my mother, of course. Then one day she and her brother disappeared. No one knew why or where they had gone. They were at the farm alone, apart from Krist�n�s son who was upstairs in bed. When their father came home, there was no sign of them.�

�That�s what the police file from the time says,� said Magnus. �But you say you know who killed them?�

�Yes. Or my father knew.�

�And who was it?�

�A British officer. Captain Neville Pybus-Smith.�

Magnus recognized the name from the old case file. �How did your father know it was him?�

�He said this Pybus-Smith was obsessed with Krist�n. He must have killed her and her brother, who was a communist. Pybus-Smith was in charge of intelligence on the island and he didn�t like communists.�

�Is that it? Didn�t your father have any evidence?�

�He had some, I think � I�m not sure exactly what � but it was nothing concrete. He was quite certain, right up to the end of his life.�

�Didn�t he tell anyone? I mean, he believed this man had killed his girlfriend.�

�He did try to � I know he spoke to his commanding officer. But he didn�t get anywhere. And that�s where he admitted he didn�t have any proper evidence. It was complicated by the fact that Pybus-Smith was leading the investigation on the part of the British authorities.�

�That�s right. I read about him in the file. He didn�t find anything.�

�Well, he wouldn�t, would he?� Louisa sighed. �Looking back on it, I can see why Dad�s commanding officer didn�t want to pursue it. It must have sounded as if my father was jealous. And no one would have liked the idea of a British officer killing two civilians. So, without evidence...�

�No, I can see that,� said Magnus. He hesitated. Louisa noticed and waited.

Thelma had told him not to tell anyone about the bullet they had found. But this woman deserved to know the truth.

�Actually,� he said. �There is some evidence now. If I tell you something, can you promise to keep it in strict confidence?�

�All right.�

Magnus couldn�t decide whether the fact that Louisa was a lawyer meant he could or couldn�t trust her. If he was her client or she had signed a non-disclosure agreement, certainly. But without those?

There was something about this woman: he trusted her. And she deserved to know the truth about her father, just as Magnus had deserved to know the truth about his own father.

�The bullets that killed them came out of the kind of revolver that was issued to British officers in 1940.�

Louisa sat back. Then she laughed. �So Dad was right!�

�Did you doubt him?�

Louisa winced. �Maybe. I mean, perhaps his commanding officer had a point. But this proves it.�

�Not quite,� said Magnus. �It could have been another British officer. Or an Icelander who had gotten hold of a British weapon. But it certainly makes it much more likely it was Pybus-Smith.�

�Thank you for telling me, Magnus. I can assure you I�ll keep it confidential.�

�I�d appreciate it. And it�s interesting to hear your father�s views. But we won�t be opening an investigation. It was all too long ago. Whoever did shoot them is long dead. This Captain Pybus-Smith, for example.�

�Oh, he�s dead,� said Louisa. �That�s the reason why I flew here to talk to you.�

Magnus raised his eyebrows.

�Sir Neville Pybus-Smith, as he became, was murdered. Strangled in 1985 at his flat in Kensington � that�s in London.�

�Did they catch the murderer?�

�They did. Or they thought they did. A black prostitute called Joyce Morgan. She had been to his house and they had indulged in an S&M session. You know what I mean by S&M? Sadomasochism?�

�We have that in America too,� Magnus said with a grin.

�The police assumed it had gone wrong. She was convicted of murder and was sentenced to life.�

�Did your father know?�

�Oh, yes. It was all over the papers at the time. We spoke about it. He admitted to me he was pleased that Pybus-Smith was dead although he knew he shouldn�t have been.�

�I can understand that.�

�But the prostitute proclaimed her innocence. She said she�d been framed.�

�That doesn�t mean anything,� said Magnus. �Believe me.�

�Perhaps. But she had convincing reasons. A journalist called Amanda Wicker became interested in her story and wrote an article about it a few years later. According to her, the police knew that Joyce had left the block of flats before Pybus-Smith had died. But they hid the evidence.�

�Why?� Magnus didn�t hide his scepticism.

�Because the chief inspector in charge of the case had a grudge against her. Joyce had told a corruption investigation she had granted him sexual favours to avoid prosecution.�

Magnus became sceptical of his scepticism. That sounded all too plausible. Mind you, it was also plausible that the hooker had made the whole story up.

�Who knows?� he said.

�Exactly,� said Louisa. �But what I found interesting in the article was that Joyce said she saw two men entering the building when she was leaving it.�

�Oh, yes?�

�They were speaking to each other in a foreign language.�

Magnus knew where this was going. �Which language?�

�Joyce didn�t know. She said it sounded like Swedish but she wasn�t sure.�

�So it could have been Icelandic?�

�It�s possible, isn�t it?�

Magnus narrowed his eyes. �Maybe. Some kind of revenge for Krist�n and Marteinn�s death?�

�Perhaps. Here. I�ve got a copy of the articles Amanda Wicker wrote.� She opened her bag and handed Magnus an envelope. �They are in there. Oh, and there�s this.�

She handed him an old black-and-white photograph.

It showed a tall, attractive woman in an Icelandic woollen hat with ear flaps, smiling at the camera. She was standing beside a motorcycle.

�That�s her?� said Magnus.

�Yes,� said Louisa.

�I can see why your father liked her.�

�So can I.�

Magnus squinted. �Is that Reykjav�k in the background? They are just beneath Esja, aren�t they, on Kollafj�rdur?�

Louisa nodded. �We stopped there when we came here on holiday. He showed me the exact spot and the photo. And then there is this.�

She smiled as she handed Magnus an exceedingly battered small book.

�An Icelandic � English dictionary?�

�That�s right. Look in the front cover.�

Magnus carefully opened the book. There was a pencilled inscription on the first page in Icelandic:

�You know who Ari the Learned was?� Magnus asked with a smile. �He wrote the �slendingab�k. Iceland�s first history.�

�Don�t I just. Dad told me all about him.�

A man after Magnus�s own heart.

He returned the photograph and the dictionary to Louisa.

�OK,� he said. �I must admit this is all very interesting. But I�m not sure what I can do about it. We have a murder in Iceland eighty-three years ago. The only surviving person involved was six at the time. And then another murder in a foreign country nearly forty years ago. My boss would never allow me to spend time on this, even if I wanted to.�

�A woman went to jail for a murder she didn�t commit.�

�Possibly. Is she still alive? Is she still in jail? I�m not sure what life sentences actually mean in Britain, but I assume she�s out by now.�

�I don�t know,� Louisa admitted. �The judge said she should serve a minimum of twenty years, so I assume you�re right. According to the articles, she was thirty-four in 1985, so she would be seventy-something now. And if she didn�t commit the crime, perhaps those two men did? Perhaps they were Icelanders? They could still be alive.�

�They could.�

�Look, it�s a question of justice. If that poor woman was wrongly imprisoned by a crooked policeman, then something should be done about it. Even if it is nearly forty years later. Don�t you agree?�

Magnus frowned.

�I have a slightly overdeveloped sense of justice,� Louisa said with a smile. �Dad always used to say my motto as a little girl was �It�s not fair!� I suppose that�s why I became a lawyer.�

Magnus nodded. �That�s why I became a detective.� In his case, it was because no one had been able to solve his own father�s murder, which had blown Magnus�s life apart when he was twenty. Magnus had eventually succeeded, but it had taken him fourteen years. In that period, as a Boston homicide detective, he had done all he could to bring murderers of other people�s fathers, mothers, daughters and sons to justice.

He was still doing it in Iceland.

�All right,� he said. �But even if the murderer turned out to be an Icelander living in Iceland, this is outside our jurisdiction.�

�That�s why I came here. Naturally, that�s your answer, and one you would have given me in an email response if I had sent you one. And do you think the Met is going to reopen a case on the suspicion that one of their number framed a prostitute forty years ago? But someone should do something.�

She was right.

�Shall I talk to your boss?� she said.

�No. Don�t do that,� said Magnus. �I guarantee that won�t work.�

�I plan to speak to that journalist. She was young in the 1990s � she�s still writing. I expect she�ll be interested in this.�

Magnus expected she would too. And if she was, that would produce exactly the kind of furore that Thelma wanted to avoid.

But this competent, down-to-earth British lawyer, whom Magnus was beginning to like, was right. It was a question of justice.

He had eventually found justice for his father. She had a right to find justice for hers.

�Look,� he said. �Officially, I know I won�t be able to help you. But I understand what you�re saying. How long are you in Iceland?�

�I don�t know. A week? I�d like to go to Krist�n�s funeral, if she�s having one. And I�d like to visit Hvalfj�rdur and maybe Krist�n�s son if he�s still alive. You said he was still alive?�

�He is.�

�Can you give me his address?�

�Not without his permission.� Magnus relented. �But it�s not that hard to find someone�s address in Iceland with an online directory if you�ve got the postcode. Especially if I were to tell you I went to see him in Grafarholt � that�s postcode 113. Which I won�t.� Magnus thought a moment. �If you do find him, don�t tell him about the bullet, remember?�

�I remember,� said Louisa.

�All right. Give me your cell phone number and tell me where you�re staying and I will get in touch with you if I find out anything relevant.� Magnus smiled. �And I will ask the questions.�

Louisa returned his smile. �I believe you will.�

Ingileif wasn�t home when Magnus eventually got back to her apartment in Vesturbaer on the hill above the Old Harbour, but �si was.

�Hi, Dad,� the boy said. Magnus grinned. Having a little boy call him �Dad� never got old. Though �si wasn�t that little any more. He was only ten, but he was one of the tallest in his class.

�Where�s Mum?�

�She said she�ll be back at seven-thirty. Did you see the Patriots won last night? Beat the Steelers seventeen to fourteen.�

�I did,� said Magnus. Father and son spent a companionable quarter of an hour talking about football, while Magnus put some pasta on to boil.

Magnus wasn�t sure that �si was genuinely interested in football, or any other sport for that matter. But since Magnus had arrived on the scene, his son had made an effort to find out about the Red Sox and the Patriots. It touched Magnus greatly that �si would go to all that effort to find a connection with his father, but he sometimes felt guilty that it ought to be the other way around. One day, Magnus would take him to Foxboro to see the Patriots. Would �si like it? There was only one way to find out.

Ingileif arrived a little after seven, and, as always, Magnus�s heart gave a little flutter to see her. She looked happy.

�I think I�m going to get that fishing lodge in the East Fjords,� she said as she began to lay the table. �Hj�rtur wants me to fly out there next week. They want rustic-modern rather than rustic-quaint. That�s something I can do.�

�That�s great.� Ingileif�s interior-design business had gone into hibernation during the pandemic, but the post-COVID tourist boom was bringing her plenty of opportunities. She had a good reputation and excellent contacts among Iceland�s artistic community, but she was careful to avoid big and bland jobs, however remunerative they were. An upscale fishing lodge would suit her down to the ground.

�Any news on those two bodies they found yesterday?� she asked. �I heard something about it on the radio.�

Magnus told her a bit about the case, avoiding too much detail on the skeletons, for �si�s benefit. After dinner, �si went off to his room to practise his violin. He needed no encouragement � he loved the instrument, and he was getting pretty good at it. Magnus and Ingileif sat on the sofa with a beer and a glass of wine.

Ingileif�s apartment was tasteful in the extreme. Good art, good glass, good ceramics, elegant lilies. A wonderful view of the fishing boats in the Old Harbour between Vesturbaer�s rooftops. Plain but warm wooden floorboards. No clutter, apart from a dozen strategically placed candles. No stuff.

It was her apartment; there was very little of Magnus in it. He had never had much stuff, but half of what he did have had been packed in a couple of boxes and stored in his old landlord Tryggvi Th�r�s basement when he had moved in with Ingileif. Magnus was happy with that; he didn�t want to mess up her lovely apartment, and she had at least designed an elegant bookcase for his books, which was what he cared about most. But it meant he felt like a visitor. A guest.

Maybe he was happy with that too?

�How�s Vigd�s�s mother?� Ingileif asked.

Magnus winced. �Not good. Turned out she was drunk. But worse than that, after Vigd�s kicked her out of her apartment, Audur drove home. And hit someone.�

�Oh, no! Was she arrested?�

�No. Hit and run. And Vigd�s saw it.�

�Did she say anything?�

�Nope.�

Ingileif looked at Magnus, understanding. �And you think she should have done?�

Magnus nodded. �I do.�

�Is the guy she hit OK?�

�Apparently. But her mother isn�t, clearly. Who knows what will happen next time she runs someone over?�

�You can�t expect her to turn in her own mother, Magn�s!�

Magnus shrugged. �They do this to you, alcoholics. They force you to become their allies. You have to stand up to them.�

�You�re not going to report her yourself, are you?�

�No,� said Magnus. �Of course not. And I do feel sorry for Vigd�s. She believes Audur hadn�t touched a drop for a year.�

�Was Erla OK?�

�Yes, Erla�s fine.�

They sipped their drinks in silence. Silence, that is, apart from the Beethoven minuet drifting in from �si�s room.

�So? Have you decided when we get married?� Ingileif asked.

Magnus had expected the question. He couldn�t dodge it, and Ingileif deserved an answer. �I don�t want to get married. Or I do. But not now. Not for a couple of years.�

Ingileif frowned, and Magnus could see she was about to come out with a sharp retort, but she controlled herself. �I don�t understand why not, Magn�s. I really don�t understand why not.�

�Neither did I. I had to think about it.�

�And?�

She had a right to know, but it was going to be difficult to tell her.

�I think if we stay as we are for a few years, then we�ll be more certain it�s the right thing to do.�

�What does that mean, Magn�s? Don�t you trust me? The whole point of this is to demonstrate that we trust each other.�

�Of course I trust you. Now.�

�Now? What do you mean now?�

Magnus took a deep breath. �I mean, you change, Ingileif. That�s one of the things I love about you, but...�

�But what?�

�You married Hannes, didn�t you? When you did that, that was a commitment, wasn�t it? And then you started seeing other men. You did the same thing with me before. You might do it again. I know you don�t mean to now. Just like Vigd�s�s mother didn�t mean to drink again.�

Colour rose to Ingileif�s cheeks. �Oh, so you think I�m some kind of sex addict, do you?�

�No,� said Magnus. �I�m sorry, Audur was a bad comparison. But I do want to be sure you don�t walk off again.�

Ingileif looked as if she was about to explode. But she lowered her voice. �Don�t you see, Magn�s? That�s the whole point. I have changed. And I want to stay changed. With you.�

There was anger, but also sadness in her eyes. �It was different when I married Hannes. It wasn�t just that I didn�t love him as much as I love you. I went into it with a different mindset. He wanted to get married and I thought marriage would be kind of fun. It�s true I didn�t take it too seriously � I had a couple of flings but they didn�t mean anything. He was the one who ran off with someone else. And then, when he wanted to come back, I decided I wanted to be with you. Properly.�

�I know.�

�Don�t you believe me?� Her grey eyes looked into his, beseeching.

�Of course I do,� Magnus said.

�Well then?�

�I just don�t want to have the same thing happen to me as happened to Hannes. Again.�

Ingileif shook her head. She looked down into her empty wine glass.

�Is that the only reason?� she muttered.

�Yes, it is,� said Magnus.

He waited for Ingileif to speak. She looked up. �What about Erla?�

�What about Erla?�

She took out her phone and fiddled with it. �Look at this,� she said.

Magnus took the phone. It was a picture of Erla on a swing in a playground in Hafnarfj�rdur, taken when Magnus and Ingileif had been round to lunch with Vigd�s the previous month. It was a close-up. She had a big smile on her face.

�OK,� said Magnus.

Ingileif took her phone back and fiddled some more. �Now look at this.�

It was a picture of a red-haired toddler of about the same age having just as much fun on another swing.

�That�s �si, isn�t it?� Magnus hadn�t met �si until he was three years older, but it was clearly their son.

�Don�t you think they look similar?�

Magnus swallowed. �No. Erla�s skin is darker � �si�s is pale. Her hair is black, �si�s is red. So no, they don�t look similar.�

�Oh, come on, Magn�s, of course they do! Look at that smile. Look at the nose.�

Magnus resolutely shook his head. He returned Ingileif�s phone. �What are you saying?�

�I�m saying they could be brother and sister. Or half-brother and � sister.�

�You think I�m Erla�s father?�

�Who is her father?�

Magnus shrugged. �Not me.�

�Magn�s. You have form for fathering children you know nothing about.�

�That�s hardly my fault,� Magnus said. �You never told me about �si. I had no idea he even existed!�

Ingileif�s eyes were hard. �Have you slept with Vigd�s?�

Magnus hesitated. Ingileif noticed. �No.�

�No? Magn�s?�

Magnus knew this wasn�t the time for half-truths. Or half-lies.

�No. But I did kiss her. Once. Over ten years ago. When you left to go to Germany. We got drunk. It was a mistake. We never did it again. We never talk about it.�

�You never told me about that,� Ingileif said.

�No,� said Magnus.

�You were drunk?�

�Yes. We both were. We both regretted it.�

�And it was just a kiss?�

�Yeah. But not just a peck on the cheek.�

�I see.� Ingileif nodded to herself. �I was doing some calculations. Erla�s about eighteen months old, right?�

�I think so, maybe a little younger.�

�Which means she must have been conceived in the summer of 2021.�

�Does it?�

�When you and Vigd�s went out drinking and you came home at five in the morning. You know, when your brother and his friends came over to Iceland.�

�I didn�t sleep with Vigd�s,� Magnus said.

Ingileif showed her phone to Magnus. �And you still say �si doesn�t look like Erla?�

Magnus nodded. �I don�t think so.�

But the little boy did look a lot like the little girl. He knew that and Ingileif knew that.

�I don�t believe you, Magn�s. I don�t think it�s me you can�t trust.� She glared at him, sadness once again tingeing her anger. �I think it�s you.�

The radiocarbon-dating report from the Anthropology Department of the University of Iceland was waiting for Magnus when he logged on to his computer in the morning.

The results were frustrating. You needed soft tissue to date time of death, but in this case that had long decayed. Teeth could be very roughly dated to the time they were formed. The age of a skeleton at death was important as was how and in what type of ground it had been buried.

Variables piled upon variables. The only thing the report could state for sure was that the victims had been buried before the 1950s when the prevalence of carbon-14 in the world�s atmosphere had risen dramatically following a spate of nuclear bomb tests.

So 1940 was possible as a date of death. And, more importantly, these were not recent murders.

But they still needed the DNA analysis for a definite ID.

Vigd�s arrived, looking worn out.

Was it Erla? Audur? Magnus didn�t know, and, given their conversation about Vigd�s�s mother the previous day, he decided not to ask.

He briefed her on the radiocarbon report and his discussion with Louisa Sugarman the previous afternoon.

�Can we get the British police file on Pybus-Smith�s murder?� Vigd�s asked.

�I doubt it,� said Magnus. �An investigation in the 1980s? Not just that, but one that was questioned in the press? The investigating officers will have long retired, and if they haven�t, they certainly won�t want to talk to us about it. Europol will take forever and then the Brits will probably just say no.�

There was an international mechanism for sharing such information through Europol and Interpol, but it was cumbersome. Magnus often had better luck using informal channels with a direct phone call to the police officer involved in an investigation overseas, but that wouldn�t work in this case.

�So, what about these two Scandinavian men? Were they real?�

�Could be,� said Magnus. �It�s an odd thing to make up. But it�s not clear to me whether they were seen before or after Pybus-Smith was murdered. They could just have been visiting someone else in the building.�

�Is it worth seeing Gudni again? See if he knows anything?�

Magnus�s phone rang.

Assault outside a house in K�pavogur. A sixteen-year-old boy had been beaten up by intruders leaving his parents� house on his way to school. He was now in hospital.

Magnus had a sinking feeling about this one as he set off, taking Vigd�s with him.

The case was as Magnus feared. The kid had been attacked by a large guy who had knocked him about and trodden on his phone. Not stolen it. Destroyed it.

The boy, who was conscious in hospital with a broken collarbone, swore blind that he had no idea why he had been attacked, that it must have been a mugging. His description of the thug was vague in the extreme: �big� was the only adjective he was confident of.

The boy�s mother, who was with him, was distraught.

Magnus and Vigd�s both knew what had happened. The kid owed money for drugs and hadn�t paid. The mother probably didn�t even know that her son took drugs. The kid was terrified of both the dealers whom he had left unpaid and his parents in case they found out what had really happened.

Vigd�s took the mother to one side, and Magnus talked to the boy.

In six years� time, could this be �si? Would Magnus be the parent fussing in the hospital?

Would he trust �si if he swore blind he had never touched drugs or bought from dealers? Probably not, given what Magnus had seen in his professional life. Would Ingileif?

Probably.

Magnus was returning to his desk from the men�s room when he noticed Vigd�s in a conference room speaking to a cop he recognized from Hafnarfj�rdur � L�dv�k. It looked like the cop was taking a statement.

The kid had stayed quiet, refusing to admit that he knew of any reason why he had been beaten up by a stranger. Magnus and Vigd�s had spoken to him and his mother together. Magnus outlined their suspicions, which were met by vehement denials from mother and son. Magnus simply pointed out that if indeed the boy had started taking drugs, now was a good time to stop.

They had heard him. That was all he could do.

The police wanted an ID of the thug � the boy�s description was useless. Two officers were knocking on doors looking for witnesses. Magnus intended to send Vigd�s out to join them.

�Was that the hit and run?� Magnus asked Vigd�s as she returned to her desk. She looked shaken.

She nodded.

�Did you tell him what really happened?�

Vigd�s avoided Magnus�s eyes and shook her head.

Magnus sighed. �Don�t you think you should have?�

Vigd�s looked up at him, anguish ravaging her face. She glanced around. The nearby desks were empty: there was no one in earshot at that moment.

�He died.�

�The jogger?�

Vigd�s nodded miserably.

�But you said he was OK?�

�Bleeding in the brain. The hospital didn�t spot it even though they kept him in for observation.�

�And you still didn�t tell L�dv�k you saw it.�

Vigd�s shook her head. �I couldn�t. It�s my mother.�

Magnus felt a surge of anger. �You idiot! You have to tell them. Have you just signed a witness statement that�s false?�

Vigd�s nodded.

�What do you expect me to do? Keep quiet?�

Vigd�s sighed. �You do whatever you have to do, Magn�s. I just can�t shop my own mother. I�m sorry.�

�Oh, great.� Part of Magnus felt sympathy towards Vigd�s. He knew what she had been through over the years with her mother. If she admitted what she had seen, that would definitely mean more prison time for Audur.

And so it damn well should.

A familiar rage bubbled up inside him as he thought of his own mother. The woman who had abandoned him first to drink and then in that car crash. Who had left him and Ollie to years of hell at the hands of her parents, their grandparents, at that farm in Snaefellsnes.

Magnus had never forgiven her for that. And he wasn�t about to forgive Audur either, for ruining her daughter�s career, his friend�s career.

He fought to control his anger. �I�m not going to do this for you, Vigd�s,� he said. �You have to go back to L�dv�k and tell him what really happened.�

�I won�t.�

�You will. I�ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it. Then I�ll talk to him myself.�

Vigd�s opened her mouth to protest. Then, her eyes moist, she turned away from him, grabbing her coat. �I�ll see how the guys in K�pavogur are getting on with the witnesses.�

Magnus watched her go. Would he carry out his threat if she didn�t correct the record? Damn right he would.

But he was confident that once she had had time to think it over, she would do the right thing. Magnus didn�t give a toss for Audur � she had just killed a man.

But he did care about Vigd�s.

His phone buzzed. It was the front desk. Two people to see him: Gudni Thorsteinsson and his son Bjarni.

As Bjarni led his father out of the police station, Magnus turned to the window behind him, let his eyes rest on the familiar hulk of Esja on the other side of Kollafj�rdur and pondered what to do next.

Bjarni had asked when they could hold the funeral, and Magnus had said that the radiocarbon dating was inconclusive and they would have to wait until the DNA analysis came back from Sweden before they had a firm enough ID for the district magistrate to release the body for burial.

But, thinking about it, Gudni�s testimony was pretty conclusive. He had seen his mother shot in the head and his uncle shot in the chest. Carbon dating was clear that the bones were from before 1950.

The bones couldn�t belong to anyone else. He would talk to the magistrate. Gudni could bury his mother.

That left the problem of what to do about Louisa Sugarman. The knowledge that it was her beloved father who had shot Krist�n and Marteinn all those years ago would devastate her. Magnus was tempted to leave her in the dark. But Gudni�s testimony would have to be recorded since it was key to identifying the bodies. Louisa was a lawyer and she was determined: she would find out what Gudni had testified.

Better if Magnus told her right away.

The Airbnb address she had given him was on Hverfisgata, up the hill from the police station. Not far. This was a message to be delivered in person, not on the phone.

He was lucky to catch her: she was just heading out for a walk. The Airbnb was an old one-bedroom flat in a building clad in deep-red corrugated metal. The ground floor was occupied by an outdoor-clothing store.

She offered him a cup of tea, but he asked for coffee. They sat down in the small living room. It was minimally furnished with a blue sofa and armchair, a TV and a pine table and chairs standing on weathered undulating floorboards. A large abstract painting of blacks and reds dominated the wall behind the table, somehow evoking a volcanic eruption.

�You have something to tell me,� she said. �And I can see from your expression it�s not good.�

�Gudni came in to see us just now. He said you spoke with him this morning?�

�Yes. I found Gudni�s address on j�.is, and I went round to see him today.�

�And he didn�t say who he thought had killed his mother?�

�No. I told him about my father and Krist�n, and how my father believed Captain Pybus-Smith had killed her and her brother. Then I told him Pybus-Smith had himself been murdered in 1985.�

�And how did he respond?�

�He seemed dazed. Confused. I don�t know � it was hard to tell. I had meant to ask him whether he had been in London when Pybus-Smith was killed, but I didn�t have the heart. It all seemed too much for him to take in. I was thinking maybe I should see him again and ask him once he has had a chance to digest what I told him the first time. Or maybe not. Maybe I�ll just leave it.�

�The thing is,� said Magnus, �it turns out that Gudni did see who shot his mother.�

Louisa opened her eyes. �And it was Pybus-Smith?�

Magnus shook his head. �I�m sorry to say it was your father.�

�What?� Louisa sat stunned. �What?� she repeated.

�That�s what he said.�

�He must be mistaken. I did the numbers: he must be eighty-nine. He�s old; he�s confused. He�s just got it wrong.�

�He described how Krist�n and Marteinn were shot, one in the head and one in the chest. We hadn�t released that information to anyone. He must have seen it.�

�That makes no sense at all.�

�I�m sorry,� Magnus said.

�But Dad loved her! He told me so many times he loved her. Why would he say that if he�d killed her?�

Magnus shrugged. �I�ve seen a bunch of murders in my career, a lot more in America than here. And when a young woman is murdered it�s often a husband or a boyfriend or a lover who killed her.�

�Why would he do that? What possible reason could he have?�

�I don�t know,� said Magnus. �And I�m not going to guess. It was more than eighty years ago. Gudni was six. We have no way of knowing.�

�My father wouldn�t kill anyone! You never knew him. He didn�t lose his temper. He was reliable, good in a crisis. I can�t imagine him as a murderer.�

�Then don�t,� said Magnus. Magnus was impressed by Louisa. She was driven by a sense of justice as acute as Magnus�s. She had come all the way to Iceland because she had believed that a woman she didn�t even know had been wrongly convicted. She was clearly a strong woman, but some of that strength would have come from her father, whom she had evidently admired all her life. To learn that this man who had given her so much was in fact a murderer must undermine everything she believed, everything she was.

This could break her. And that wasn�t right.

�I know it�s going to be very hard,� Magnus said. �Just trust your instincts. We�re not going to launch an investigation. We need Gudni�s testimony to confirm that the bodies do indeed belong to Krist�n and Marteinn, but nobody needs to make a fuss about it.�

�What about the press?�

Yes, what about the press? �I know my boss, the detective superintendent, is very keen that the press don�t get hold of the idea that these two were shot by a British officer. That�s one of the reasons why we withheld the details of how they were killed. Gudni�s testimony is not conclusive proof, and also he has been reluctant to talk about it for the last eighty years. So we may be able to keep the details quiet.�

�But you think my father shot them?�

�I don�t know,� said Magnus.

�If he killed her, why would he talk to me about her so much? Take me on a trip with him to Iceland?� She sat up straight and shook her head. �No. I just don�t believe it.�

�All right,� said Magnus. �I can understand that. But I know you were considering going to Krist�n�s funeral. You might want to rethink that.�

Louisa sighed. �You�re probably right. And thanks for telling me.� Although her face was set firm, Magnus could see in the trembling of the corners of her lips and the desperation in her eyes that she was struggling against the crushing weight of the news she had just heard.

�I�ll leave you now,� said Magnus. �I am sorry.�

Louisa didn�t respond; she just stared at that big painting of black and red.

Ingileif was less cool towards him than Magnus had expected that evening.

�I bumped into your old landlord in the street this afternoon. He asked after you.�

�Tryggvi Th�r? How is he?�

�He looked old.�

�He is old. He�s ancient.�

�Yeah, but he looked really old. Like he might be ill.�

�I hope not.� Tryggvi Th�r was a former cop with whom Magnus had lodged for several years. They had got on surprisingly well.

�When was the last time you saw him?�

�Not for several months.�

�He asked after you. Did you ever find out what he was doing with Thelma?�

�No.� Magnus had seen Tryggvi Th�r and Thelma having lunch together, shortly after they had both denied knowing each other. And after Tryggvi Th�r had been attacked. Twice. �He said, if I didn�t shut up asking him about it, he�d throw me out.�

�Well, he can�t do that any more, can he?�

�No,� Magnus admitted. But Ingileif was right � he should stay in touch with the old man. �I�ll give him a call. Maybe you could come with me? He always liked you.�

�Maybe.� Ingileif�s voice was cool. Maybe not.

Dinner was over, Magnus had done the washing up and �si was in his bedroom, when she sat on the sofa and asked him to join her.

She took his hand, her face determined.

�Magn�s. I�m going to ask you a question, and it�s important you answer honestly.�

�OK,� he said.

�Are you Erla�s father?�

He squeezed her hand. �No,� he said simply, meeting her grey eyes.

Ingileif seemed to hesitate. He felt the pressure of her removing her hand, and then she squeezed it. �OK,� she said. �I believe you.�

�Thank you,� said Magnus. And he really meant it.

�I decided I was going to trust you and you were going to trust me, and I�m not going to give up on that. So I believe you. But you�ve got to admit that Erla and �si do look similar?�

Magnus didn�t answer.

�What about getting married?�

�Do you still want to do that?� Magnus blurted out.

�Oh, yes,� said Ingileif. �Now more than ever. I don�t mind telling you, I feel vulnerable. I�m trusting you totally when my head is telling me I shouldn�t. But I�m overruling my head. I need you to trust me.�

�I do trust you.�

�Do you? That�s not what you said yesterday.�

She was right, it wasn�t. And yet.

�OK. I understand. Just give me some time to think about it. Not years, like I said yesterday. Days. OK?�

�OK,� Ingileif nodded.

Magnus admired her. She was taking a risk with him. And, given her track record, the whole commitment thing was a bigger deal for her than for many other people. He had no doubt of her sincerity.

But, as she said, Erla and �si did look a lot alike. And there was a reason for that.

Magnus was worried about Vigd�s. And he wanted to share that worry with Ingileif.

�You know I told you that Vigd�s saw her mother hit someone in her car on Tuesday?�

�Yes?�

�He died.�

Ingileif gasped. �Oh, no! Have they arrested Audur?�

�Vigd�s hasn�t told anyone what she saw. Apart from me.�

�Oh. That�s not good.�

�No, it�s not. I�ve told her to come clean. I�ve given her twenty-four hours to do it, or else I�ll do it for her.�

�Do you think she will?�

�I hope so. I�m sure she will. She�s a good cop.�

�What if she doesn�t?�

Magnus shrugged. �If she doesn�t, I�ll speak to the officer who took her statement.�

Ingileif looked at Magnus steadily. He knew what she was thinking. �I have to, Ingileif! Once cops start covering for other cops then the whole thing becomes rotten. I saw it in Boston. I�m not going to be part of it here.�

�But it�s her mother,� Ingileif said quietly. �You can�t expect her to testify against her mother.�

�I would,� said Magnus, anger tingeing his voice. From nowhere he could feel the emotion bubbling up inside him. It was all he could do to restrain a sob.

�I know how you feel about your mother, Magn�s, how angry you are with her,� Ingileif said gently.

Magnus was angry with his mother. While he was living it, his childhood hadn�t made any sense. His first memories were of warmth and happiness in a tiny metal-clad house on the hill in Reykjav�k with a little tree he could climb in the front yard. His mother going off to teach at the local secondary school. His father at the university. The family laughing together, all of them happy.

Then his father left them to go to a university in America. At first, Ollie, Magnus and their mother were supposed to follow him, but then they didn�t. The two brothers moved up to their grandparents� farm in Snaefellsnes where life became a nightmare. Their grandfather was cruel to the point of sadism; their grandmother looked the other way. Their mother became sleepy or silly and did nothing to protect the boys from her own father. There were times of manic laughter, but mostly life was miserable.

Then there was a car accident and she died. And Magnus�s father came back from America to rescue him.

As a teenager, Magnus had begun to make sense of all this. His mother was an alcoholic. She had chased her husband away. Then she had got drunk and driven into a rock, probably intentionally. She probably intended to abandon her sons to her own parents.

She had hurt Magnus badly, and ruined Ollie�s life. Magnus couldn�t forgive her.

He had subsequently discovered, after his return to Iceland as a cop, that there were other reasons why drink had got the better of her. Magnus�s father had started an affair with her best friend. But even with that knowledge, he couldn�t forgive her.

He hadn�t been able to explain this to anyone. Except Ingileif. Ingileif had understood.

�This isn�t about your mother, is it?� Ingileif said.

�No. And I know it�s dreadful for Vigd�s. But this woman should be locked up. What about the guy she hit? What about the guy�s family? What about the next guy she hits, next week or next month? What about them?�

�I�m not saying Vigd�s shouldn�t say what she saw,� Ingileif said.

�So what are you saying?�

�I�m saying that if Vigd�s hasn�t changed her story by this time tomorrow, talk to me before you do anything.�

�All right,� Magnus said. �All right. I�ll talk to you.�

His phone beeped. Ingileif rolled her eyes.

But the text wasn�t from the station. It was from Louisa.

Louisa didn�t show at 10 a.m. Vigd�s was writing up the assault in K�pavogur. They had one poor description of the thug to go on. Big, light brown hair, small beard, blurred ink on his neck.

No sign of Louisa at ten-thirty.

Magnus texted her. No response.

By eleven, Magnus was worried. A foreigner missing an appointment with the police should be no big deal. Perhaps she had decided to drop the whole thing? Perhaps whatever she thought was important hadn�t seemed so important in the light of day?

But he had seen enough of Louisa to know she would take an appointment with the police seriously. If she had changed her mind or if something else had come up, she would have told him. Louisa was the kind of woman who didn�t miss appointments.

He had a bad feeling about this.

�I�m going to Louisa�s Airbnb,� he told Vigd�s.

�Really?�

�I don�t like it.�

�Suit yourself,� said Vigd�s, going back to her computer.

Magnus drove the short distance. He rang the bell to Louisa�s flat. No answer. He tried again. Nothing.

The entrance to the flat was through a white door just beside the clothes-store front. There was a key box with a combination � no doubt tenants were given the code when they arrived at the start of their stay.

Magnus called Vigd�s. �She�s not there,� he said.

�Maybe she�s gone for a coffee.�

�Without contacting me? Can you get hold of Airbnb and tell them to find someone to let me in? Say we are worried about their tenant�s safety.�

�Seriously?�

�Seriously. She had important information for me today. I�m worried. I hope I�m wrong.�

�Fair enough,� said Vigd�s.

Magnus grabbed a cup of coffee at a caf� across the road. Five minutes later, he received a text: The owner will be round in ten minutes.

The owner was a man in his thirties wearing a suit but no tie � a banker or businessman who bought properties to rent out on Airbnb on the side.

Magnus introduced himself. �Your tenant is Louisa Sugarman, right?� he asked.

�That�s right. She�s taken the place for two weeks. She said she was visiting friends in Iceland when I exchanged emails with her. Your colleague said you were worried about her?�

�I am. Do you mind if we go in and check on her?�

�Sure.� He pulled out some keys and unlocked the door of the building. Louisa�s flat was on the first floor.

Magnus stopped the man as he was about to unlock the door and gave him a pair of disposable gloves, putting some gloves on himself.

The man raised his eyebrows, but put them on, turned the key and made way for Magnus to enter.

Louisa Sugarman was lying on the floor of the living room, face up, her blood staining the fine weathered floorboards.

October 1940

September 2023

�So, you want to speak to me about Neville Pybus-Smith�s murder?�

Amanda Wicker�s dark hair hung down beside a face scored with deep vertical lines. Her lips pointed downwards, giving the impression of a permanent scowl, but her brown eyes were lively. She was appearing by video link on Magnus�s computer, his own image and that of Vigd�s in small boxes on the right of the screen. Books were stuffed into the bookshelf behind the journalist higgledy-piggledy, suggesting more than just a backdrop for show.

�That�s right,� said Magnus. �We�ve read the articles you wrote in 1990.�

�And why would the Icelandic police possibly be interested in that?�

�We are investigating a homicide here. We�re not sure, but there may be a link to Pybus-Smith�s murder in 1985.�

�The mysterious Scandinavians?�

�Before we go any further, I�d like to keep this off the record.�

�Why should I talk to you off the record?�

Magnus had been expecting this. �We�ve contacted the Metropolitan Police in London, but I�m not confident we will receive any help from them.�

�You can be confident you won�t.�

�Quite. But if there is a link between that murder and the one here in Iceland, then it will prove that Joyce Morgan was innocent.�

�Which would be a great comfort to her,� said Amanda. �I mean that sincerely. But I also mean that I would want to write about it.�

�OK,� said Magnus. �Here�s what I can do. If the two murders are linked, I�ll give you a heads-up when we make an arrest. You�ll get the press release at the same time the Icelandic media do. But you will be the only one who knows about the 1985 murder. What you do with the information will be up to you.�

Amanda Wicker was thinking, mulling over negotiating strategies.

�Amanda, I need your help. If my hunch is right, Joyce Morgan is innocent. You care about that: I know you do.�

�She was finally let out in 2007,� said Amanda. �I never understood why she went down for murder and not manslaughter if it was a sex game gone wrong. The worst thing, the thing that really pains her, is that both her sons are now in prison. She�s convinced that if she had been around when they were growing up, they wouldn�t be in there now. She�s probably right.�

Magnus understood her anger. Prison could run in families: he had seen it many times in Boston and often even in Iceland. And if it was a bent British cop who put the mother in prison, he bore the responsibility for the sons as well.

�So do we have a deal?� Magnus asked.

Amanda paused a moment before nodding. �We do. What do you want to know?�

�Firstly, have you been contacted recently by a woman named Louisa Sugarman?�

Amanda shook her head. �Never heard of her.�

�Are you sure?�

�Quite sure. Who is she?�

�She�s the murder victim. She was killed some time last night here in Reykjav�k. She said she was going to speak with you about Pybus-Smith�s murder. I guess she never got the chance.�

�No, she didn�t,� said Amanda, pausing to scribble down the name.

�What about those two Scandinavians? Can you tell me anything more about them than you put in the article?�

�I dug out my notes just now after I got your email asking to interview me. There was an older man and a younger man. The younger one was tall and blond. No real description of the older man, apart from he had grey hair.�

�And they were speaking Swedish?�

�Joyce had watched a lot of Swedish porn films in her sex work and she said they sounded a bit like the actors in one of those.�

�Could they have been speaking Icelandic?�

�Funnily enough, I wondered about that. I knew that Pybus-Smith had been stationed in Iceland during the war. But Joyce couldn�t be sure what language it was. Is there an Icelandic connection?�

Amanda Wicker was an old-school journalist in her sixties. Magnus trusted her to stick to their agreement.

�There may have been. We think two young Icelanders were shot by a British officer in 1940.�

�Pybus-Smith?�

�Someone else. We think.� Magnus glanced at Vigd�s, staring at her own computer at her desk opposite him. �We don�t know.�

�So, this would be some kind of revenge killing? That�s a long time later, isn�t it �1940 to 1985? That�s forty-five years.�

�That�s true,� Magnus admitted. �I was trying to put together a timeline from your article for the night of the murder.� He checked his notes. �I couldn�t see how it was possible for Joyce to have left the building at nine-forty-five having murdered Pybus-Smith when he made that phone call to the minicab firm at nine-forty-seven.�

�The police claimed that the witness who saw her leave at nine-forty-five was wrong.�

�But that still doesn�t add up, unless the witness was wrong by at least half an hour.�

�No, it doesn�t. And a young detective constable at the time admitted as much to me. He was the one who told me about the call to the minicab company and he corroborated Joyce�s claims that she and other girls had provided sexual favours to the detective chief inspector in charge of the case. He was certain his bosses were out to get her � he heard them say as much. This was all off the record, of course: his career would have been over if they had found out he�d spoken to me. You see, I knew Joyce had been framed. That�s why it was all so frustrating, and why I kept at it.�

�What happened to the detective constable?�

�Chief superintendent now. Still a good contact. Still a good copper. The chief inspector who fitted up Joyce Morgan took early retirement in the 1990s before he was forced out of the Met by another corruption investigation. Classic bent-cop move.�

In theory, the young detective constable should have reported what he knew to his superiors rather than going to the press anonymously, but Magnus could understand how hard that would have been back in those days, how small the chances were that anything would result from it apart from the end of the constable�s career. It would be hard even now, as Magnus well knew. He had first been transferred to Iceland to escape the consequences of reporting the tampering of evidence by bent cops in Boston to protect a local drug gang.

�Can I talk to this chief superintendent?�

�Definitely not.�

�What about the bent cop?�

�Not him either. But that�s because he died ten years ago.�

On Magnus�s computer screen Amanda frowned.

�What is it?� he asked.

�I�ve just remembered. You know Joyce specialized in S&M?�

�Yes.�

�We had an interesting conversation about it once. About why these men enjoyed it.�

�And?�

�She said there were a variety of reasons. For some of them, either being beaten or doing the beating at boarding school during adolescence inspired their fantasies. For one or two, it was something darker.�

�What do you mean?�

�Self-loathing. A desire to punish themselves. She had one client who had shot some German prisoners of war in Italy. That was why he wanted her to whip him.�

�And Pybus-Smith had something similar?�

�Joyce thought so, from what he said. He was never specific and she didn�t want to ask. But yes, he believed he had done something very bad for which he should be punished.�

�Interesting.�

�Do you know what that might be?�

�Yes,� said Magnus. �I think I do.�

Magnus and Vigd�s entered the interview room, Vigd�s with a folder under her arm containing evidence gathered during the search of Gudni�s apartment in Grafarholt. The search was still continuing. Gudni had a lifetime of paper crammed into his small apartment and it was taking hours to go through it all. But his clothes were already being analysed for bloodstains.

Gudni looked up from his chair. In the station, he appeared even smaller and frailer than he had at home, his long unkempt white hair a straggly mess. But his eyes were bright, defiant.

�You again?� he said. �Can we get on with this?�

Magnus and Vigd�s sat down opposite him. The video-recording equipment was already on. Vigd�s placed her folder in front of her: it contained a couple of items which Gudni might have difficulty explaining.

Magnus cleared his throat and formally identified himself and Vigd�s. �Gudni, I must inform you that we are now treating you as a suspect in the murder of Louisa Sugarman. This means you have a right to a lawyer if you wish.�

�I don�t need a lawyer. But I do want to talk to my son.�

�That won�t be possible just yet. Your son is next door. We will interview him next.�

�Is he a suspect too?�

�He certainly is.�

Gudni snorted. �Ridiculous. All right, what do you want to know?�

�Were you in London on the twelfth of March 1985?�

�How should I know?� said Gudni. �I can�t remember that far back.� He chuckled. �I�m not sure what I was doing this time last week. But I�d say no. We were living in K�pavogur then.�

�Did you travel to London in 1985?�

�I said, I don�t know.�

�Think.�

Gudni shrugged.

�Have you ever been to London at all?� Vigd�s asked.

Gudni nodded. �Yes. I�ve been a couple of times on short holidays with the family. But probably not in the mid-eighties. The kids were grown then. But I also went to see Spurs sometimes.�

�How often?�

�In those days, once every couple of years. It was expensive and my wife wasn�t keen on me going away too often. After she died, I went more frequently. But it�s even more expensive now.�

�Who did you go with?�

�Usually a friend from work. Bragi �rn. He�s long dead now. Once or twice with my uncle and cousin.�

�Not with your son?�

�Bjarni? Again, once or twice. But he never really liked football.�

�Did you go to see Spurs in 1985?�

Gudni nodded. �Eighty-four/eighty-five was a good season for Spurs. Came third in the league. I think that year I saw them play Ipswich Town. We lost three � two. Leworthy scored twice. I thought he was a good player, but he only stayed with us a few months. I wonder what happened to him?�

Didn�t seem much wrong with Gudni�s memory, Magnus thought. He knew dementia could strike randomly, destroying some memories and preserving others. But it seemed to him that Gudni�s forgetfulness was far from random.

Vigd�s produced a programme from the match, the words Tottenham Hotspur picked out in blue over a photograph of a man in a white shirt and black shorts leaping to head a ball. In smaller letters on the cover were the words Saturday, 20 April 1985. �We found this in your flat.�

Gudni picked up the programme and leafed through it. �It was always a shame to spend all that money and travel that distance to watch them lose.�

�Did you see any other matches that year?�

�Not that season,� said Gudni. �I went to see them play Luton in eighty-six. Nil-all draw. Another waste of money.�

�So you didn�t go in March eighty-five?�

�No. Have you found a programme?�

�We haven�t,� said Vigd�s. �But you could have got rid of it.�

�Why would I do that?� said Gudni. �I�d never throw away a programme.�

�To stop us finding it,� said Vigd�s.

Gudni snorted.

�You told us you saw Lieutenant Tom Marks shoot your mother,� Magnus said.

�That�s right.�

�But you didn�t, did you?�

Gudni blinked. �Yes, I did. I told you. That�s something I can remember.�

�Then how do you explain this?�

Magnus nodded to Vigd�s who extracted an airmail envelope from her folder. She passed it to Gudni.

It was addressed to him. It bore a stamp of Queen Elizabeth.

His shoulders slumped. �I�d forgotten I still had that.�

�But you remember its contents?� Magnus asked.

Gudni extracted two sheets of thin airmail paper and scanned the black handwriting.

Gudni pursed his lips and looked up from the letter to Magnus.

�It really doesn�t sound to me as if the last time you saw Tom Marks he was waving a pistol at you and threatening you to keep quiet because he had just shot your mother.� Magnus peered at Gudni. �Does it sound like that to you?�

�No.�

�So why did you lie to us?�

Gudni�s eyes fell to the letter. He didn�t reply.

�Was it because you knew that it was actually Pybus-Smith who had shot your mother but you wanted to put us off the scent? In case we realized it was you who killed him in London. For revenge.�

Gudni didn�t move.

Magnus waited.

�I wish you hadn�t told Louisa that her father shot my mother,� Gudni said at last.

�Because it wasn�t true?�

�Because she died believing it was.�

�For what it�s worth,� Magnus said, �I don�t think she did believe it.�

�That still leaves the question: why did you lie to us?� Vigd�s said.

�We know you saw someone shoot your mother,� Magnus said. �You knew she had been shot in the head, so you must have witnessed it yourself. Was it this British officer with the small moustache? Neville Pybus-Smith?�

Tears appeared in Gudni�s eyes. He nodded. He looked up. The tears came fast, running along the crags and creases of his face. He made no attempt to stop them.

�Well?� Magnus said. �Why didn�t you want us to know that?�

No answer. The pain in Gudni�s watery eyes tugged at Magnus. But he knew he was getting somewhere. All he needed to do was push harder.

�You went to London in March 1985, didn�t you? With your son, Bjarni? You went to Pybus-Smith�s block of flats. You passed a black woman on your way in. And when he let you into his flat you strangled him. Was it you? Or was it Bjarni?�

Nothing.

�That black woman went to jail for twenty years, you know? For a crime she didn�t commit. A crime you committed.�

Gudni slumped back in his chair and let his eyes drop.

�What about Louisa?� said Vigd�s. �How much of this had she discovered? What was she planning to tell us?�

Gudni muttered something inaudible.

�What was that?� said Magnus.

�I didn�t kill Louisa,� he said, still not raising his eyes. �And neither did Bjarni.�

Before interviewing Bjarni, Magnus caught up with his team. As usual in a murder investigation, the atmosphere was one of excitement and activity � Icelanders worked fast in a crisis. But as usual, Magnus was wary. Speed was important, but so was thoroughness. He would much rather his officers took an extra hour over a task than that they missed a clue or a connection.

Five hours after the discovery of Louisa�s body, there was a lot to report, a lot still to investigate. There had been no obvious signs of blood on Gudni�s clothes, but forensics were taking a closer look. No communications with Louisa on Gudni�s phone or his computer, although he had spoken to his son Bjarni three times in the previous forty-eight hours, including just after Louisa came to see him.

Police in Britain had tracked down her two adult daughters but were still trying to find Louisa�s husband, or rather ex-husband, Daniel Sugarman. They had been divorced ten years.

Nothing from the phone company yet about Louisa�s phone. Magnus was hopeful that if her murderer had grabbed her phone and hadn�t switched it off, then it might leave a trail and perhaps even point to his whereabouts. If he had had the sense to switch it off or take out the SIM, then that action would give an idea of the time of the attack.

CCTV at the car park on Saebraut showed Louisa leaving in her rental car at 4.45 p.m. the previous afternoon and returning at 8.15 p.m. Where did she go? Whom did she speak to? What information had they given her that she wanted to pass on to Magnus?

Two officers had been looking at footage from the CCTV up and down Hverfisgata. It was hard to be sure because it was dark and raining, but they hadn�t spotted any images of a small, frail old man matching Gudni�s description between 9.30 p.m. and midnight. Magnus asked them to check again for Bjarni, whose photograph had now been taken.

Forensics were still trying to untangle the various traces of fingerprints in Louisa�s apartment. The most interesting was a print on her bag. It wasn�t hers, and it hadn�t matched anything in the L�KE database. Her phone could well have been in that bag, so there was a good chance the print belonged to whoever had stabbed her and then taken her phone. Magnus asked them to check the sample against Bjarni�s prints.

He set them all back to work and called the prosecutor to brief her on how the case was progressing and to ask her to arrange a warrant for Bjarni�s phone and computer and his clothes. If Louisa hadn�t been in touch with Gudni, maybe she had spoken to Bjarni.

Then he went outside the police station to talk to the gaggle of reporters and cameramen hanging around the entrance. He identified the victim as Louisa Sugarman, a British citizen, and asked any member of the public who had seen her between 3 p.m. and 9.30 p.m. the day before to come forward. He answered questions about suspects with an assurance that the investigation was progressing well. An officer handed out photographs of Louisa for the reporters.

Vigd�s headed for home straight from Bjarni�s house in K�pavogur. His wife had backed up his story: he had returned home at about eleven-fifteen � she wasn�t sure of the exact time.

Could he have thrown the phone into the bay at ten-forty-two, run back to the restaurant and caught a taxi, getting to K�pavogur at eleven-fifteen? It would be tight, but it was just possible. Also, a wife�s testimony in support of her husband was always suspect; she could just be lying.

There was no visible blood on Bjarni�s clothes and they would be added to Gudni�s in the forensic labs.

As Magnus had said, they would soon find out whether Bjarni and his father had killed Louisa.

Magnus.

It was good he had given her another twenty-four hours to make up her mind, but the truth was her mind was already made up.

She couldn�t rat on her mother. She just couldn�t. Magnus didn�t understand that. She was pretty sure he was expecting her to do what he considered her duty, in which case he wouldn�t have to report her. In a way, that was a sign of his confidence in her. It was also a sign he didn�t understand her.

His telling Ingileif about Erla was less of a worry � for Vigd�s, at any rate. It�s true she had made him swear never to tell anyone at all. But Vigd�s trusted Ingileif to keep quiet. It was much more of a problem for Magnus.

What about her mother? Audur probably didn�t even know yet that the jogger had died. Vigd�s hadn�t heard anything about it on the news, although it might well have been reported.

Audur also didn�t know or didn�t care that Vigd�s was about to blow up her career for her.

Anger boiled inside Vigd�s. It was all very well feeling irritation at Magnus. The person she should really be angry with was her own mother.

She was driving along the main road approaching Hafnarfj�rdur and the turn-off for home. She decided to drive on.

To Keflav�k.

Ingileif was already waiting for Magnus, sitting on a low wall outside the H�fdi House, a small white mansion that stood beside the bay. It was eight-thirty and Magnus had driven the short distance from police headquarters.

It was a fine, clear night, cool, but not cold. A half-moon illuminated the broad shoulders of Esja on the other side of the fjord. The dim shapes of ducks floated quietly in the gently lapping water. Lights of small craft glimmered in the bay.

�I heard you on the radio,� she said. �Any luck catching the murderer?�

�I think so. We�ll find out tomorrow.�

�Why drag me here?�

Magnus sat down next to her. �You know why. This is where we first met.�

The H�fdi House was a solid white wooden building that had been lifted out of a bourgeois northern European suburb where it would have blended in nicely, and dumped in a treeless settlement built of corrugated metal and concrete, where it became the grandest place in town. As such it had famously played host to Reagan and Gorbachev in the 1980s.

�Where we second met,� said Ingileif. �We first met in my gallery when you interviewed me.�

�You know what I mean.� After that first interview, fourteen years ago, just after Magnus had arrived as a detective in Iceland, Ingileif had called him and asked him to meet her right there, at the H�fdi House. She had given him vital information relating to the murder of a professor he was investigating.

More importantly for both of them, it was the beginning of something. The beginning of what was not yet, even now, completely clear.

�Perhaps I do.�

�I have two things to talk to you about.�

�You sound very serious.�

�Perhaps I am.�

�What things?�

Magnus took a deep breath. �I need to tell you about Erla.�

�Oh,� said Ingileif. �You do.� Magnus could hear the nervousness in her words.

�You�re right, Erla looks a lot like �si.�

�I knew it!� said Ingileif, her body stiffening, bitterness flooding her voice.

�Wait a moment,� said Magnus. �Hear me out.�

Ingileif didn�t reply. But she waited.

�They look similar because they�re cousins.�

�Cousins?� Ingileif frowned. �What does that mean, Magn�s? How can they be cousins?�

Magnus waited. He wanted Ingileif to answer her own question.

The H�fdi House was floodlit, and Magnus could see Ingileif�s expression quite clearly in the reflection from its white walls.

Her face lightened for a moment in understanding and then darkened.

�You�re telling me that the father is Ollie? Your brother?�

Magnus nodded.

�And you expect me to believe that?�

�Yes,� said Magnus. �You remember how he came over here in the summer of 2021? How Vigd�s and I went out with him and his friends?�

�Yes, of course I do. That�s when I thought you and Vigd�s slept together. When Erla was conceived.�

�She was conceived that night. But it was Ollie, not me, who slept with Vigd�s.�

�Why would Vigd�s sleep with your brother? He�s a scumbag.�

�I�m not entirely sure. I wondered the same myself. I asked her, eventually. She said she was drunk. He was drunk. He�s a good-looking scumbag, which I suppose is true. But most importantly, he wasn�t going to be hanging around Iceland; he would be gone and out of her life in the morning.�

�She intended to get pregnant?�

�I don�t know. I haven�t asked her. Maybe.�

�Does Ollie know?�

�No. And Vigd�s is hoping he�ll never find out. I only discovered it six months ago when I noticed how similar Erla and �si were. I did the maths and realized she was conceived when Ollie was in Iceland. I was pretty drunk myself that night, but I remembered that when we all broke up at the end of the evening I kind of left Ollie and Vigd�s together. I asked her whether they�d slept together and eventually she admitted it. She made me promise I wouldn�t tell anyone, including you.�

Ingileif shook her head. �I can�t believe it.�

Magnus took her hand and squeezed it. �Please believe it.�

�Why didn�t you tell me before?�

�Vigd�s swore me to secrecy. I keep my word.�

�But you knew how upset I was. How upset I am.�

�I know. That�s why I�m telling you now. I warned her I would.�

�What did she say?�

�I think she�s more worried about what she�s going to do about her mother at the moment.�

Magnus could see the glimmer of a tear in Ingileif�s eyes. �I�m afraid to believe you, Magn�s.�

�What do you mean?�

�I mean, if you are lying to me now, I�d feel such a fool.�

�I�m not lying.�

�It�s kind of obvious that you slept with Vigd�s. That Erla is your daughter. It�s not obvious that Vigd�s slept with Ollie.�

�Isn�t it? Because that�s what happened.�

�God,� said Ingileif. �Who knew this monogamy would be so hard?�

�It works for me,� said Magnus.

�I guess it works for me too,� said Ingileif.

�Do you believe me?�

Ingileif looked out over sparkles of moonlight on the dark bay. Magnus waited, his heart pounding.

In the end, she nodded. �Yes, Magn�s. Yes, I believe you.�

Magnus exhaled. �Good,� he said. �In that case, there�s something else I want to talk to you about.�

�Oh God, Magn�s. I hope it�s not as difficult as that was.�

�So do I.� Magnus smiled. �Will you marry me?�

Magnus was in a good mood when he drove into work the next morning.

Ingileif had said yes. They had managed to get a table at Grillmarkadurinn, one of the best and most expensive restaurants in town, and they had had a wonderful evening. They knew, now that they had both finally made the decision, that it was the right one.

Strangely, it had been Ingileif�s doubts about him that had convinced Magnus that they should get married. Sure, given Ingileif�s track record with other men, it was a risk. But Ingileif had demonstrated that she was willing to take a risk herself, that she was willing to trust him even when the evidence suggested she should not.

If she was willing to take that risk, so should he be.

Having taken it, Magnus found himself suddenly, euphorically, happy.

Ingileif started talking about the wedding. It was going to be big � no surprise there. It was also going to be in a church � a bit more of a surprise. Magnus managed to steer Ingileif away from the tiny chapel at Bjarnarh�fn, the farm on the Snaefellsnes peninsula where he had grown up, which had too many painful memories. But Ingileif quickly fixed on the �Black Church�, a slightly bigger building near the H�tel B�dir on the other side of the peninsula, with a wonderful view over lava fields to the majestic Snaefellsj�kull volcano.

It was everyone�s favourite wedding location, but Ingileif was sure she could swing it. Of course she could.

Magnus was also feeling confident that he had the murderers of Sir Neville Pybus-Smith and Louisa Sugarman in custody. There were some legitimate questions still to be answered, but he hoped those would all be sorted out that morning.

They weren�t.

There was a buzz of excitement at the meeting Magnus called at eight-thirty, but as various officers reported the results of their different lines of inquiry, the mood deflated.

The fingerprints on Louisa�s bag did not belong to Bjarni. Gudni�s old cancelled passport from the 1980s had been found during the search of his flat. Stamps showed that he had arrived in the United Kingdom on 19 April 1985, but he had not entered the country at all in March. Mar�a, Bjarni�s colleague, had seen Bjarni get into a taxi at about 10.30 p.m. at the Indian restaurant. The taxi driver was certain that he had picked up Bjarni from the steps of the restaurant at ten-thirty-four and that at ten-forty-two Bjarni was in his cab, not tossing a phone into the sea. He had records from an app to confirm precise timings.

Magnus was disappointed, but not downcast. He knew from experience the danger of becoming too wedded to a theory, of seeking out evidence which backed up that theory and ignoring anything that disproved it. They had had a hypothesis, it had turned out it was wrong, it was good they knew that now. Time to find a new theory.

�All right. We�ll let Gudni and Bjarni go; we can always pull them back in if anything new turns up, but I�m not optimistic. Now it�s even more necessary to find out what Louisa had discovered that she wanted to tell me. We need to track her movements, find out where she drove off to. She used a small local rental company � no GPS tracker, so they don�t know where her car went. Someone must have seen her. Cameras will have captured her vehicle. Perhaps she bought petrol?

�R�bert?� Magnus asked one of his detectives. �Get on to her family in England and check if Louisa mentioned anything about her trip to Iceland and her suspicions about Neville�s murder. Especially if she phoned them or sent them a message in the twenty-four hours before she died.�

Vigd�s�s mind drifted as she listened to Magnus. She had registered that Gudni and Bjarni were off the hook and so they were back to square one, or perhaps square one-and-a-half. But she had been up half the night stewing. Her brain was tired, and it kept returning to her mother.

She had gone to bed sure that she would keep quiet and fairly sure that Magnus wouldn�t. So her career would be over. This would be her last case. She guessed she would be suspended immediately, probably within minutes of Magnus telling whomever he decided to tell.

It made her immensely sad. She was a good detective. She enjoyed her work, even if she was occasionally irritated by internal politics and the interminable paperwork, or computerwork as it now was. She liked Magnus and her other colleagues. She didn�t like Thelma, her boss, but then bosses came and bosses went.

That�s who she was, who she had been her whole adult life. A police officer. A detective. She couldn�t imagine doing anything else, being anything else.

Tears came, running down her cheek on to her pillow.

What would she do next? She had rent to pay, food to buy, for Erla as well as herself.

She had no idea.

But she knew she couldn�t shop her own mother.

She had woken up shortly after 2 a.m. Wasn�t there anything she could do?

No.

If only her mother would listen to her, listen properly. It wasn�t as if sacrificing Vigd�s�s career would do her mother any good. She�d still wind up in jail once Magnus had reported her. Why couldn�t she see that?

It was thanks to Audur that Vigd�s had a career in the police in the first place. It had been hard growing up black in Iceland. There had been some overtly cruel racism, but most of it was just unthinking: Icelanders were unused to black people. Vigd�s could deal with the individual slights, but they built up over a lifetime, a steadily increasing load that never went away.

Vigd�s had been strong enough to bear that load, thanks to her mother. Audur was Vigd�s�s fiercest supporter, willing to go into battle anywhere at any time for her daughter.

When Vigd�s had talked to a police recruiter about a job in the force and the man had laughed, telling her that the idea of a black policewoman wasn�t conceivable in Iceland, Audur had been angry. Her anger turned into incandescent rage when she saw Snorri Gudmundsson, the head of the Reykjav�k Metropolitan Police, on television talking about how they needed police officers from minorities. She stormed into police headquarters first thing the next morning and demanded to see him. She was turned away.

But then she wrote a letter � this was back in the days when people still wrote letters. Two days later she received a phone call inviting her to come into headquarters and meet Snorri to discuss her daughter. Snorri listened and encouraged Vigd�s to apply to the police.

So Audur had got her into the police force and now she was going to get her out.

Vigd�s knew her mother. She was grasping at straws, and the one straw left was that Magnus wouldn�t actually report her, or rather report Vigd�s.

Was she right? Was there any way Vigd�s could persuade Magnus not to talk?

No. Pleading wouldn�t help. Pointing out the consequences for her if he spoke up wouldn�t change his mind; he was already well aware of them. Vigd�s didn�t doubt Magnus�s affection and loyalty towards her. That was the problem. She knew he believed that when cops put their loyalty to other cops above the law, everything fell apart. It was partly because the results would be so consequential that Magnus would think it important to do what he considered the right thing.

So Vigd�s�s career was over and her mother was going to jail.

In which case, why not just turn Audur in herself? Then only one of them would suffer.

Sending her own mother to jail was unthinkable, but it was also logical.

Vigd�s just couldn�t do it. How could she live with herself afterwards? For Magnus, loyalty to justice beat everything else. For Vigd�s, it was loyalty to family, even if, apart from Erla, her only family was her drunken mother, who seemed happy to put her own survival before her daughter�s.

But keeping quiet, sacrificing both of them, didn�t make sense.

At 5.09 a.m., according to the numbers on her phone by the side of her bed, Vigd�s decided she would call L�dv�k and tell him what she had seen. She would still be in trouble � she was convinced Thelma had it in for her � but her career would probably survive. She knew Magnus would be right behind her.

But she would feel terrible. How could she live with herself?

She�d just have to. She�d call L�dv�k as soon as possible that morning.

As soon as possible meant when the meeting was over.

She could see Magnus was wrapping up, so she slipped out and left the building by the back entrance into the car park, crammed with an assortment of police vehicles. She moved away from the door and leaned against the black railings. She selected L�dv�k�s number in Hafnarfj�rdur.

She heard his voice as he picked up. �Hi, Vigd�s.�

She couldn�t do it. She just couldn�t do it. She couldn�t tell this policeman that her mother had run over someone and killed them when drunk.

�Vigd�s? Is that you?�

She shook herself. �Yes, L�dv�k. Sorry, it�s me, I was distracted. I wondered how your investigation was going? Into the hit and run. Any progress?�

�Nothing so far, beyond the silver car. Why, have you got something for me?�

�No, I was just curious. Sorry, I�ve got to go.�

She winced as she put down the phone. That was it. It was all over.

Magnus returned to his desk. There was plenty to do, but he needed a few minutes to think. Thinking was underestimated.

Vigd�s showed up and sat silently at his desk, waiting. It was good to have Vigd�s there � she could help him do the thinking. She had done that many times before.

She looked a bit down � her mother, no doubt. They could talk about that later.

�We can assume it wasn�t Gudni and Bjarni who killed Louisa and Neville Pybus-Smith,� Magnus said. �Gudni wasn�t in London in March 1985, and although Bjarni could perhaps have flown there from university in Florida, it�s unlikely.�

�Bjarni definitely didn�t throw Louisa�s phone into the bay at ten-forty-two,� said Vigd�s. �It�s very hard to believe that Gudni stabbed Louisa and then ditched the phone in the sea. He�s just too old and frail. And I never understood why he would wait forty-five years to get his revenge. Why not do something earlier?�

�All right. If it wasn�t them, who was it?�

They sat in silence for a few more moments.

�Someone else who didn�t want Louisa to tell you what she�d found out,� said Vigd�s. �But what was that?�

�Probably � and I say probably, not certainly � something about Neville Pybus-Smith�s murder.�

�If those two Scandinavians Joyce Morgan saw entering Pybus-Smith�s building were not Gudni and Bjarni, then who were they?�

Magnus grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and began drawing.

�What are you doing?�

�Drawing a family tree.�

A minute later, Magnus looked over the diagram he had sketched and showed it to Vigd�s.

At the top was H�lfd�n, the farmer at Laxah�ll. Beneath him were his children, Krist�n, Marteinn and Siggi. Beneath Krist�n was Gudni and beneath Gudni, Bjarni.

Next to Siggi Magnus had scribbled two names: on one side Sunna and on the other Fr�da of Selv�k. Beneath Siggi and Fr�da was J�n.

It was possible that there were other cousins or offspring who hadn�t been mentioned to Magnus yet, but for now, this list would do.

He thought a moment.

�We need an older man in 1985.� He circled a name. �And we need a younger one.� He circled another one. �What do you think?�

Vigd�s squinted at the diagram thoughtfully. Then she perked up. �I think you�ve got it! Let�s go.�

October 1940

September 2023

J�n burst into the room carrying a blood-stained blue cooler. �Two cod and a wolf fish,� he said.

Then he saw the two detectives. His eyes dropped to the programme in Magnus�s hands.

�What are they doing here?�

�They�ve come to ask us about Louisa, love,� Fr�da said.

�Oh.� J�n frowned. �I hope you waited for me before you spoke to them.�

�I answered their questions,� Fr�da said quietly.

The frown deepened. J�n put down his cooler, poured himself a cup of coffee and joined them around the kitchen table.

He glanced again at the programme, seemed about to say something, and then kept quiet.

�What were you doing in London on the twelfth of March 1985?� Magnus asked.

J�n took in a deep breath. �Watching a football match with my dad,� he said. �That one.�

�What else were you doing?�

He shook his head. �Nothing. We stayed at a small hotel and came back to Iceland the following evening.�

�I see,� said Magnus. �Last Thursday evening you drove into Reykjav�k just a few hours after Louisa Sugarman visited you here. What were you doing then?�

�I needed to pick up a part for the tractor.�

�Which shop was open that late?�

J�n shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Magnus stared at J�n. He was waiting for J�n to fill the silence, but it was Fr�da who spoke; her quavering voice had a hard edge.

�J�n. Tell them, love. Tell them what you and Siggi did in London.�

J�n turned to his mother. �You know?�

�When Louisa told us that that Neville man had been murdered in the 1980s, I knew. Everything slotted into place. I remembered Siggi behaving very strangely when you came back from London. He was never really the same man after that. Now I know why.�

J�n glanced from his mother to Magnus and Vigd�s. �I don�t know what she�s talking about,� he said.

�I understand Neville�s death,� Fr�da said. �What he did to your grandmother was evil. But Louisa?� Tears welled up in the old woman�s eyes. �How could you do that to Louisa? She was only trying to get justice for her own father. And for the poor woman who was convicted of the murder.�

�Mum!� Anger flared in J�n�s eyes. �How can you say that? Do you know what you�re doing?�

Fr�da�s bottom lip trembled; the struggle of her own anger and sadness ravaged her face. A tear rolled down her cheek. �How could you do that, J�n? How could you kill her?�

�This is bullshit!� J�n pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Magnus tensed, ready to pounce if he made a run for it, or if he attacked his own mother. The big farmer fought to control his anger and then moved to the window, staring out at the fjord, his face hidden from the detectives.

�We know you killed Neville Pybus-Smith,� Magnus said quietly. �And we know you killed Louisa.�

Magnus, Vigd�s and the old woman waited for J�n to decide what to say.

He turned around to face them. �I didn�t know Dad was going to kill the Englishman,� he said eventually, so quietly that Magnus could barely hear him. �I didn�t even know he existed until after the match. Dad said we were going to visit someone: the British officer who had killed his brother and sister during the war.

�I knew about their disappearance, of course. It was a family legend, whispered about over the years. But until then, I had no idea they had been killed. Dad said my cousin Gudni had seen it happen when he was a little boy. Seen this British officer Neville Pybus-Smith shoot them both. Gudni kept quiet about it, but eventually he told Dad. Dad said we were just going to talk to this man, and that he had brought me along because I spoke English. I was twenty at the time.

�So, we went to this fancy apartment block in Kensington. Eton Court, it was called. We were going to ring the bell when a black lady came out of the building and let us in. We went up to Neville�s floor and knocked on his door.

�He wasn�t expecting us, and he wasn�t pleased to see us, but Dad pushed past him into the flat. Then Dad made him sit down and I had to translate as Dad told him how he knew Neville had killed Krist�n and Marteinn.

�Neville denied it and said that if we didn�t leave his apartment immediately, he would call the police.�

J�n swallowed. �Then Dad went for him. I wasn�t expecting that at all, but he grabbed Neville by the neck and started squeezing. Neville was an old man, in his seventies, and although Dad wasn�t very big, he was very strong. But Neville wriggled free and scrambled over to a desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a gun.

�Dad was about to go for him, but stopped. Neville told him to back away � I was still translating. There was something about Neville�s eyes, some kind of decision he had made. I knew he was going to shoot Dad. So I picked up a lamp and swung it, hitting Neville on the head.

�It was a good blow. Neville was out cold. Then Dad jumped on him and grabbed his neck again.�

�What did you do?� Magnus said.

�I just watched him. I hadn�t realized until that moment that Dad had planned to kill Neville all along. But that�s what he did. Right in front of my eyes.�

�Then what did you do?�

�We left. I thought to wipe down anything we had touched, and I grabbed the gun. Then we took the Underground back to our hotel and went back to Iceland the next day. I threw the gun away in a canal near the hotel.

�We both thought we would be caught. I was furious with Dad: he had suckered me into helping him. I�m sure that Neville deserved to die, but it wasn�t up to us to kill him! I was only twenty and my father had made me a murderer. I found it hard to forgive him for that. I never did forgive him.� His mouth set in a grim scowl. �Never.�

�Things were different between you after that trip,� said Fr�da. �I remember. And I never understood why.�

�That was why. But it would all have rested there. Dad died more than twenty years ago. And then Gerdur decided to have her fun.� J�n�s voice was bitter.

�What do you mean?� asked Magnus.

�That earthquake. Spitting out those remains for the stupid tourists to discover. You know, at first I really thought that skull belonged to her.�

�J�n, Gerdur died three hundred years ago,� said Fr�da. �There�s nothing left of her.�

Her son scowled.

�What happened when Louisa came here on Thursday?� Magnus asked.

�She was upset that Gudni had told you her father had shot Krist�n and Marteinn. She didn�t believe it was true and asked us whether we knew anything that would help her prove it. I said no.� He threw a glance of frustration at Fr�da. �My mother said yes. She said Dad had told her that Gudni said it was another British officer who had killed them. I didn�t know he had done that, that she knew.�

�What was Louisa�s reaction?�

�She was relieved. Then she asked us whether we knew Neville had been murdered in 1985. We both said no � I think Mum genuinely didn�t know anything about it. She certainly looked surprised.�

Fr�da nodded. �That was the first I had heard of it.�

�But I don�t think Louisa believed that I didn�t know. I said Neville deserved it if he had killed my uncle and aunt. That was a mistake: Louisa immediately became suspicious. She told us about the black woman who had let us into the building and how she had been convicted for the murder and spent years in prison.

�She said she was going to the police to tell them that Gudni had lied to them about who shot Krist�n and Marteinn. I decided against asking her not to do that � I thought it would just make me look guilty. But after she left, I realized that I had to persuade her to stay quiet somehow. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I had a good chance: she clearly believed Neville was an evil man. He deserved to die. And even if she didn�t approve of us killing Neville, it was nearly forty years ago and surely she could turn a blind eye?

�So I drove into Reykjav�k. She had given us her address there and phone number � it was an apartment in Hverfisgata.�

J�n paused. Magnus, Vigd�s and Fr�da waited.

�At first, she seemed sympathetic. She knew her father hated Neville and loved Krist�n. She seemed to agree Neville needed to be punished for killing Krist�n. But she thought murder was murder. The real problem was the black prostitute who had gone to jail for a crime she didn�t commit.� J�n looked down. �Then I lost my temper. I said what did it matter, she was only a whore. Louisa didn�t like that. I knew I�d blown it.�

J�n stopped.

�And then?� Magnus said.

�Then I stabbed her.� J�n took a deep breath. �I knew I could never persuade her. She said she was going to talk to you the next morning about Neville�s death and I knew you�d figure out who had killed him. So I stabbed her. I wiped down her room and left. I threw her mobile phone into the sea � I thought it might have evidence on it � and came back here.�

�What did you stab her with?� Magnus asked quietly.

�A knife. I threw that in the sea too.�

�And where did you get the knife?�

�I brought it with me. It�s one of the ones I use to gut fish.�

�Why?�

�In case.�

�In case what?�

J�n looked up at Magnus, but he didn�t answer.

Premeditated, Magnus thought.

He had heard enough. The rest could be explained in the interview room at the station with a lawyer present. �J�n Sigurdsson, I�m arresting you for the murder of Louisa Sugarman.�

He nodded to Vigd�s, who took out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on to his wrists.

As they were leading J�n to the car, Fr�da touched Magnus�s arm. There were tears in her old eyes. Her wrinkled face seemed to crumple in on itself. She seemed devastated by the enormity of what she had done, but underneath her anguish, there was steel in the old woman.

�I had to tell you,� she said. �I know he�s my son, and I don�t care about that horrible soldier. But he shouldn�t have killed the poor woman! I had to tell you.�

Magnus watched as Vigd�s pushed J�n into the back seat of Magnus�s car.

�I can imagine how difficult that was for you,� he said. �But you did the right thing.� He smiled with sympathy. �I am sorry.�

Fr�da turned and hurried back into the warm farmhouse.

Had she done the right thing? Magnus had meant what he said when he had agreed with her. But he knew very well what Vigd�s�s opinion would be.

The truth was, he didn�t know.

Magnus and Vigd�s transferred J�n to a police car which had met them on the main road into Reykjav�k, and turned up the hill to Grafarholt. There would be plenty of time to question J�n more closely at the station, but Magnus wanted to have a word with Gudni first.

Vigd�s�s worried expression had returned; she was obviously thinking about her mother.

�You know Ingileif and I have decided to get married?� Magnus said. �Properly. In a church.�

�Really?� Vigd�s�s face lit up with a genuine smile of pleasure. �Congratulations! I didn�t think Ingileif would go in for that sort of thing with you.�

�Neither did I. But she was the one who wanted to do it.�

Vigd�s shook her head. �And I thought she had good taste. Isn�t that her job? To have good taste?�

�She almost didn�t,� said Magnus. �She thought I was Erla�s father. That�s why I had to tell her about you and Ollie.�

�Really? She really thought you and I had...�

�Really.�

�Yuck.�

�Yuck?�

Vigd�s turned to Magnus. �Yuck.�

They drove on in silence for a while, Vigd�s staring out of the window at the new apartment buildings of Grafarholt. �You know, I�m pleased we�ll still be working together, Vigd�s,� Magnus said.

Vigd�s grunted and continued to look away. But Magnus could just make out the traces of a small smile on her lips.

Very few people outside Iceland realize that Britain occupied the country in 1940; I certainly hadn�t heard of it until I started writing novels set there.

Royal Marines landed in Reykjav�k in May that year and they were soon relieved by the British territorial 49th Division from Yorkshire � nicknamed �the Polar Bears� � and a Canadian brigade including the exotically named Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa and Les Fusiliers Mont-Royal. At its height, at the end of 1940, there were over 25,000 British and Canadian troops defending the country. This has always seemed odd to me � I would have thought they could more usefully have defended Britain from the Germans just across the Channel. But Major-General Curtis, the commanding officer in Iceland, was adamant they were needed. No one thought to check with the Royal Navy, who were equally certain the Germans could never have transported an invading force to Iceland and, more importantly, supplied it once it had landed.

In the summer of 1941 the Canadians and the British left for Britain, and handed over the defence of Iceland to the Americans. While the Allied soldiers never did anything more than fire at a few Luftwaffe aeroplanes flying overhead, aircraft from Iceland harried German U-boats in the North Atlantic, and Hvalfj�rdur was the mustering point for many of the Arctic convoys to Russia.

Life in Iceland for the occupiers was tedious � the main enemies were boredom and the weather. But many fell in love with the country, and some fell in love with its people. The same troops landed in Normandy in June 1944 and fought their way through France, so in retrospect their time in Iceland was a period of peace and quiet.

The Icelanders� reaction was mixed. No one likes to be invaded, and many were concerned about the conquest of their women. On the other hand, there was plenty of money to be made, especially once the Americans arrived. The occupying soldiers generally behaved well. Many, if not all, of the population might have agreed with the Icelandic MP �rni J�nasson when he said: �It was practically a unique example in history of an occupying army which was better liked on the day of its departure than on the day of its arrival.�

Of the books and articles that I read about Iceland during the war, one in particular stands out: Iceland in World War II by G. J�kull G�slason. It is both readable and comprehensive, with short chapters on every aspect of the war in Iceland and interesting photographs. Unfortunately, I believe the book is only available in Iceland. Wind, Gravel and Ice by Christina Chowaniec gives an excellent picture of the daily life of the soldiers stationed in Iceland, based as it is on her Canadian grandfather�s diary.

The farms of Laxah�ll, Selv�k and T�ftir are fictional, but Hvalfj�rdur is very real and, on a good day, very beautiful.

I should like to thank all those who helped me with the research and the writing of this book: J�kull G�slason, Bragi Th�r Valsson, Quentin Bates, Richenda Todd, Liz Hatherell, Lee-Anne Fox, Jennye Seres, Jeff Edwards who drew the map, David Grogan who designed the cover, my agents Oli Munson and Harmony Leung, and, as always, my wife Barbara.