‘She has a point,’ said Vigdís from the desk opposite where she had been listening to the whole thing.
‘She does,’ said Magnus. ‘She does.’
Thelma hung up the phone and smiled broadly as Magnus entered her office.
‘You look happy,’ he said.
‘Just got our headcount raised,’ she said. ‘It’s only by one, but that’s a result these days.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Magnus.
Thelma was a few years older than Magnus, with short blonde hair, a pugnacious jaw, hard blue eyes that knew how to twinkle and a false leg — the result of a car chase gone wrong. She was not universally liked in the department: she was a bit of a hard-arse, and Vigdís in particular thought Thelma had a problem with women. But she and Magnus respected each other. Magnus got the results and Thelma took the credit. Win-win.
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Thomocoin,’ said Magnus.
Thelma sat back in her chair and examined Magnus over her reading glasses. It was an intimidating stare, but Magnus was used to it.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I just got a visit from Dísa Ómarsdóttir — it was her mother who was murdered in Dalvík. She holds Thomocoin responsible. Half the community up there has invested, including her mother and her grandparents. It’s probably what motivated Gunnar Snaer to kill Helga. And no one here in Reykjavík is doing anything about it.’
‘So?’
‘So I thought I would ask around. Quietly. Dísa believes Thomocoin is on the verge of bankruptcy.’
‘Was anyone from Thomocoin directly involved in the killing?’
‘I don’t think so. But I’d like to find out.’
‘Let me put this another way. Is there any evidence that anyone from Thomocoin was involved?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Yet?’
‘No,’ Magnus admitted.
‘And has Ólafur asked you for more evidence about Thomocoin?’
‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘He doesn’t think it’s necessary. But if Thomocoin goes bust then a lot of people are on the line for a lot of money.’
‘And who told you it’s going bust? A nineteen-year-old student?’
‘The FBI,’ Magnus replied.
Thelma paused. Thinking through the angles.
‘Let’s say it does go bust. Then the shit really will hit the fan. And two things will happen. They will look around for who to blame. And they will look around for bodies to help them with the investigation. But they won’t look to us on either count, because this has got nothing whatsoever to do with CID. It’s not our job. It’s not your job. It should stay that way.’
‘Not even a couple of interviews?’ said Magnus. ‘I can write them up for Ólafur.’
‘No.’
‘All right,’ said Magnus.
‘Do you understand me, Magnús?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’
Magnus got up to leave.
‘Oh, Magnús?’
‘Yes?’
‘How’s that old guy you live with? Tryggvi Thór?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘He avoided the virus in the spring?’
‘Yes. He was pretty careful.’
‘The numbers are ticking up again. We may get another wave. He should still be careful.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘No, don’t tell him,’ said Thelma. ‘He’s a grumpy old git. Just keep an eye out for him, will you?’
‘I will,’ said Magnus. He left unsaid the question in his mind: Why do you care?
When he got back to his desk, he looked up the address for Fjóla Rúnarsdóttir. As Vigdís had said, Dísa had had a point. Magnus had been in her shoes once and he wasn’t about to let her down. His mistake had been to try to get approval from his boss. Well, she need never know.
Twenty-Three
TUBBYMAN: Hey Krak.
KRAKATOA: Hey Tubs.
TUBBYMAN: I’m hearing rumours about the FBI.
KRAKATOA: What rumours?
TUBBYMAN: They’re asking questions. About Thomocoin.
KRAKATOA: They have been for a while. It’s OK. We’ve shut up shop in the US. You know what the Americans are like: they don’t care about anywhere else.
TUBBYMAN: There are threads on the boards that claim the Feds have been asking about Sharp and Jerome.
KRAKATOA: First I’ve heard. But we’re expecting good news from Iceland. Any day now.
TUBBYMAN: For real?
KRAKATOA: For real.
TUBBYMAN: That’s good. So what shall we do with the price today?
KRAKATOA: Put it up half a per cent. Show there’s nothing in these rumours.
TUBBYMAN: I don’t know. Maybe we take it down for a couple of days. Show the rumours working through in the price. Let them sweat a bit. Then snap the price up, especially if we get good news out of Iceland. Give them some relief. And also some regret that they didn’t buy more when it was cheaper. They’ll like that.
KRAKATOA: Yeah. That’s better. Do it.
TUBBYMAN: OK. I’ll get to it. How’s the COVID in Canada? Are you getting a second wave?
KRAKATOA: Still not too bad. Nowhere as bad as the States.
TUBBYMAN: They’re getting a little worried here in Germany. Stay safe.
KRAKATOA: And you.
Tubbyman was good. Krakatoa was always tempted to show the price of Thomocoin rising inexorably upwards. Tubbyman understood that Thomocoin was a gamble, and that gambling was no fun unless there was a chance of losing. That’s what made the price rises, when they came, sweeter.
Krakatoa looked up from his computer. Outside, the sea shimmered silver as it reflected the low September light which slipped under the clouds. It was a cold day here in Iceland — whereas several thousand miles away on the west coast of Canada the temperature was an unusually warm twenty-two degrees Celsius, according to Krakatoa’s weather app.
He really must keep an eye on the COVID stats in Canada. Here in Iceland, it was all fine so far.
Twenty-Four
Dísa turned off the National Ring Road at Mosfellsbaer and headed inland between mountains of bleak rock and scree. The road was good — it was the classic tourist route from Reykjavík to the site of the ancient outdoor parliament at Thingvellir — but with the virus, the usual coaches were absent, and Dísa could put Kata’s Hyundai through its paces.
She was anxious to get to the lake.
She had been disappointed that the big red-haired detective had been so feeble, but part of her had expected it. On the long drive with Kata back to Reykjavík, a Plan B had slowly slotted into place in her head in case the police failed to act.
Ómar had built a tiny summer house of wood and glass next to Apavatn about fifteen years before, in the good times. It was at the end of a dirt track, which passed about a dozen larger summer houses. The track petered out at a stream that babbled and chuckled past the cottage. Dísa and Anna Rós had loved visiting the place in the summer as kids, both playing outside in the stream or the lake when it was sunny, or shut up cosily with both parents when the rain was driving horizontally against the wooden walls.
They’d still visited there with Dad and sometimes Jói after the divorce, but it wasn’t the same.
She parked the car in front of the house but didn’t go in. She didn’t have a key.
Instead, she made her way through the grass to a thicket just a few metres away from the building, between it and the stream. The sunlight glittered on the blue lake, and hills slumbered on the other side. To the east, the powerful snowy shoulders of the volcano Hekla hunched under a solitary cloud. At this time of year, midweek, the other cottages were empty.