Vigdís told Ólafur what she had discovered about Halldór’s family and the shooting of the polar bear, but Ólafur didn’t listen closely. If it didn’t help him build a case against the German, it didn’t interest him.
Magnus called Vigdís from Reykjavík to report on his investigations of Halldór’s son, Sveinn. As Gudrún had intimated, he had a minor criminal record: he had been arrested for possession of cannabis twice and assault once. Magnus had gone to Sveinn’s apartment in Breidholt, where a half-stoned woman — who was probably Sveinn’s girlfriend, although she didn’t admit to it — said that Sveinn was at that moment on his way to Raufarhöfn. She also said he worked in a café downtown.
The café proprietor, a brisk woman in her thirties, told Magnus that Sveinn was in danger of losing his job because he was so unreliable. But she remembered that Sveinn was working the afternoon shift the day his father had been shot. It had been on the news the following morning, and Sveinn had called her up saying he would not be coming in for the next few days, which she had understood completely.
The owner said that although Sveinn was unreliable, he was a good guy. She clearly liked him.
Vigdís thanked Magnus and wrote up her report. Then Ólafur sent her off to a couple of farms south of town to ask about registered firearms. Both farmers showed her their rifles and said they hadn’t fired them on the day in question.
Back at the police station, Ólafur dismissed everyone and went for a run.
Vigdís returned to the hotel. It was a mellow evening, the sun shining low over the hills to the west, gilding the grassy slopes of the cliff by the harbour entrance a soft yellow. She decided to walk out there. Just as she was leaving her hotel room, she paused. She turned and grabbed the vodka bottle. She wanted peace and quiet and a view of the sea. And a drink.
The soft evening light was ruffled by a stiff breeze from the west. Vigdís didn’t mind; she wanted fresh air and lots of it. She struck out past the church up a path to the cliff at the mouth of the harbour. A small orange lighthouse squatted on its summit — she decided to head for that.
She was frustrated at Ólafur and his mishandling of the investigation. Of course the two animal-rights activists should be suspects, but not at the expense of anyone else. She sometimes thought that the older-school Icelandic policemen viewed a criminal investigation as an exercise in gathering information to confirm a known theory. It was true that most Icelandic crime was of a straightforward nature: a drunken man holding a knife next to a body, threatening to stab anyone who came near him — not hard to solve that. But she and Magnus had been involved in a number of difficult cases where the obvious solution had proven to be the wrong one.
Vigdís was pretty sure this was one of those.
Magnus would sort Ólafur out. It was ironic: having gone all the way to Raufarhöfn to escape her boss, now she almost wished he was here.
‘Hey!’
She turned to see a figure coming down the hillside from the graveyard. Martin Fiedler.
‘Vigdís! Your name is Vigdís, isn’t it?’
The man was speaking in English.
‘Hi,’ she said. And then: ‘I do not speak English.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Martin Fiedler. ‘Every Icelander speaks English.’
‘Not me,’ said Vigdís.
He approached her. ‘OK. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
‘Nein.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the German said in English. ‘Can I walk with you?’
Despite professing not to speak English, Vigdís in fact understood quite a lot of the language. As Martin had said, it was impossible not to pick up some English living in Iceland. As a girl she had become so sick of people assuming that she was not Icelandic and speaking English to her that she resolved not to learn the language. She knew it was stubborn. But then everyone was always telling her she was stubborn.
She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Fiedler. No walk together. I policeman. You...’
‘Criminal?’ said the German. ‘I’m not a criminal. And please call me Martin.’
‘Criminal Martin,’ said Vigdís.
Martin laughed. He had a friendly smile and very warm brown eyes.
‘Look, Vigdís, if I don’t speak Icelandic and you don’t speak English, then how can there be a problem? Tell me.’
Vigdís hesitated.
‘If you don’t mind me walking with you, just say: “I don’t understand.”’
Despite herself, Vigdís smiled. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, and turned away from Martin along the track.
Within a moment, he was at her side.
‘Well, I need to talk to someone,’ said Martin. ‘That Alex guy is an idiot. I think he genuinely believes it was good the policeman was shot. The farmhouse we were staying in has thrown us out — they believe we killed the cop — so now I have moved into the hotel. So I’ll talk to you, right?’
Vigdís didn’t answer.
‘Right?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Vigdís.
‘Cool,’ said Martin. ‘Then let me tell you all about myself.’
And he did. He spoke slowly and clearly, pausing to choose simple sentence constructions that Vigdís would understand. And she did understand nearly all of it.
He spoke of his childhood, how he had always been fond of animals and how as he learned about climate change and extinction he had become angry. His father was a senior executive for a power company who had become disillusioned with the efforts of his employer to talk about carbon emissions without actually doing anything about them. Martin’s father was too old or scared or well entrenched to do anything either, but he encouraged his son.
Then he had died and left Martin a bit of money. After university Martin had used it to fund his protests against climate change and, increasingly, against animal cruelty either in the lab or the hunting field.
Vigdís listened, caught up in Martin’s enthusiasm.
‘Now I am going to tell you about my girlfriends,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said Vigdís in English.
‘Don’t spoil it,’ said Martin. ‘You don’t understand me, remember. I’m not going to tell you my secrets if you can understand them.’
‘OK,’ said Vigdís. ‘I don’t understand.’ They had reached the lighthouse. There was a stunning view of the waterlogged Melrakkaslétta plain, of the town behind them and of the Arctic Ocean stretching north towards the icecap. The invisible Arctic Circle was only a few hundred metres away.
‘It’s cold up here in the wind,’ said Vigdís in Icelandic. ‘Let’s go down there.’ She pointed to a spot on the lee side of the headland, just above the cliff face.
‘OK,’ said Martin, understanding.
They found a patch of soft dry grass and sat down. They were facing east, and the sun behind them was throwing golden trails on to the sea. Far below, driftwood from Siberia bumped up against the black pebble shoreline. Terns wheeled beneath them, making their familiar ‘kría!’ call.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Martin.
Vigdís nodded. She hesitated and then pulled out her vodka bottle and offered him some. Martin raised his eyebrows and took a swig. He passed the bottle back to Vigdís.
‘Now, Petra. Let me tell you about Petra.’
Petra was a beautiful raven-haired goddess that had somehow been dropped down from the heavens into Martin’s high school. He told of his various stratagems to woo her, all of which failed. He was funny. Even in English he was funny.
As the sun sank lower, Vigdís began to feel colder, but she didn’t care. The sea was beautiful. The light was beautiful. The lunatic German’s patter was warm and comforting. The vodka tasted good. She was having a good time.