She felt safe here, in her apartment with Bjarki, but it wouldn’t last. Tomorrow she would be going to Greenland with Suzy, Einar, Professor Beccari, Ajay. And Tom.
Tom’s threat had really shaken her. She now saw him in a totally different light. Previously, she had taken his unwillingness to talk as evidence that he was the strong, silent type: loyal, competent, reassuring. Now she feared it was an indicator that he was a weirdo or a sociopath, and that his loyalty to Suzy was more like blind worship than respect.
She had no idea what he really thought or why he did what he did.
And what had he meant when he had reminded her of Carlotta’s fate? Did he mean that whatever unknown person had killed Carlotta had done it to prevent questions about the authenticity of the Columbus letter or the wampum? Or did he mean that he knew who had killed Carlotta and why?
Or, and this was the most frightening alternative, had it been he who had murdered the Italian woman? She would soon be travelling to Greenland for ten days with this guy.
Eygló had been asking more questions about the wampum than she had let on to Tom or Beccari. As soon as she had arrived back in Iceland after the Nantucket trip, she had consulted the record of Einar’s dig at Brattahlíd in 2011 to see whether there was any indication there that the wampum might have been planted. There wasn’t, although the report did state that the shells had been found in a disturbed context adjacent to the 1932 trench.
As Eygló thought more about it, she realized that in normal circumstances it would be extremely difficult to plant the wampum clamshells convincingly. But if the contexts had become jumbled at the edge of the old excavation trench, then the wampum shells could have been planted at any depth without raising suspicions. However, just because the shells could have been planted, didn’t mean they had been.
Eygló and Einar had had a tense conversation on the way back to Reykjavík from Ólafsvík in Einar’s car. Einar told her that Professor Beccari had grilled him about the wampum, but Einar was confident he had put up a robust defence. Eygló believed him; Einar really knew his stuff when it came to Norse archaeology, and his arrogant self-assurance could only have helped.
But when Einar had wondered aloud why Beccari had suddenly become suspicious, Eygló had foolishly repeated her lunchtime conversation with the professor. As she had expected at the time, Einar was furious. In his mind, there was no doubt at all that the evidence that Gudrid had reached Nantucket was genuine. Nancy Fishburn’s granddaughter was joking, she had said she was joking and Eygló should have left it at that.
The only thing that worried him was the fear that Eygló would undermine other people’s confidence in that fact — in particular Beccari’s.
Eygló was chastened. Maybe Einar was right. Eygló had done the correct thing in passing on Kelly’s comment about Nancy Fishburn, but Suzy had checked it out, as had Eygló herself, and no evidence had come to light that the Nantucket theory was false. Perhaps she should just keep her mouth shut.
But what about Carlotta’s death? Tom’s threat had had its effect. Although she was unsure how seriously to take it, it scared her. She had no intention of dying for the sake of archaeological truth. From the stove she could see the back of Bjarki’s blonde head on the sofa in the living area. She was his only parent. Sure, her two sisters would look after him somehow if anything happened to her, but the thought of what her death would do to him, and of how she would miss him growing up, filled her with dread.
She knew she should go to the police: tell them about Tom’s threat and about Kelly’s suspicions of the wampum in Greenland. Then Inspector Magnús could figure out what to do with the information.
But her initial trust in the big policeman had been blown. OK, she could see why he had been upset that she had lied to him about knowing Carlotta, and she could certainly see why he was suspicious of Einar. But to accuse her of killing Carlotta was just absurd. If he had any brains he should realize that she couldn’t possibly have done that.
She wasn’t going to go to the police. It would blow up The Wanderer project, destroy all their reputations and Suzy’s house and marriage, and she would be calling Tom’s bluff. If it was a bluff; she really didn’t want to find out whether it was or not.
‘Dinner’s ready!
She watched Bjarki as he squeezed ketchup on to his sausages and marvelled again at how much love she felt for a normal boy doing normal things. Especially that evening with everything else that was going on. She hoped that somehow his life would be less complicated than hers. Fewer mistakes. No drugs. No destructive relationships. No psycho Englishmen threatening to kill him.
What would he become? she wondered, Whom would he marry? Would he marry? What about his own kids?
She had no idea, and she rather liked it that way. It was still possible to feel optimistic about a future that had not yet been set in stone.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see that murder in the north on telly?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘It was at Glaumbaer. Wasn’t that where you were filming?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Eygló had not been intending to tell Bjarki about the murder, but at that moment she desperately wanted to be honest with him. ‘In fact, it was me that discovered the body. In the churchyard.’
‘Really?’ Bjarki looked up at her, his eyes widened with excitement. Then they clouded. ‘Was there blood and everything?’
‘Yes.’ Eygló said. ‘It was quite unpleasant.’
‘Oh.’ She watched as her son processed the information. ‘Did the police come? Detectives and people?’
‘Yes, there were lots of police and I spent a long time talking to them, answering their questions.’
‘Have they found who did it?’
‘No, they haven’t found the murderer yet.’ She wanted to reassure him, to tell him that the murderer couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her, that she was safe, that he was safe. But she couldn’t do it: she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, even if it was obviously in his best interests. She had lied enough: she wasn’t going to lie any more to the person she loved most in the world.
‘Oh.’ Bjarki stuck his head down and worked on his sausages and chips. As Eygló munched her salad, she could tell he was thinking, but she had no idea what he was thinking. Was he intrigued? Was he scared? She regretted telling him, but she knew she would have regretted keeping the whole thing from him even more.
They finished their dinner in silence. She was still sitting at the table as he got up and put his plate in the dishwasher. As he passed her on his way back to his computer game, Bjarki hesitated and let his hand rest on hers, just for a moment.
Eygló blinked and a single tear ran down her cheek. Bjarki didn’t see it; he was back at his game.
Twenty-Eight
Magnus left the station at six-thirty. His stuff, which he had picked up the previous day from the hotel in Reykjavík, was still in the back of the car. He called Tryggvi Thór to warn him he was coming, and drove out to Álftanes.
‘Ah! It’s the homeless policeman,’ Tryggvi Thór said as he answered the door without a smile. The only sign of his injury was a crease a couple of inches long creeping through his thick steel-grey hair.
‘That’s sadly true,’ said Magnus. ‘Thank you for helping me out. Sorry I never made it here last night, I had to go up to Ólafsvík at short notice.’
Tryggvi Thór grunted. ‘Follow me.’ He led Magnus up the stairs to a small room with a view over the sea. ‘This is yours,’ he said. ‘There’s a bathroom next door. Bring your stuff up.’