‘No, not really doubts,’ said Eygló. Certainly while she was in Greenland she was not going to question the wampum, or the letter. She was going to remain a true believer and get out of Greenland alive.
Beccari looked at Eygló closely, and then smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
They sat in silence for a minute or two.
‘I think I will leave this evening,’ he said.
‘Don’t go.’
Beccari raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘It’s good to have you here,’ Eygló said. Although it was hard to imagine Professor Beccari actually protecting her, the presence of someone unconnected with the madness of Carlotta and her death was reassuring. With him around, she just felt safer.
‘I’ve seen what I came for: Brattahlíd. And I would like to see a couple of other places in Greenland before I go back to the States. I’ll take the helicopter to Qaqortoq this evening and stay there. It sounds interesting.’
Eygló had visited the town once on her previous trip to Brattahlíd. It was picturesque on the surface, a jumble of multicoloured houses tumbling down three hillsides to the sea, but she had remembered sensing an undercurrent of bored desperation.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty,’ she said. ‘But we are heading up to the Western Settlement once we have finished here. You would enjoy that.’
‘I don’t have time for that, and you must admit your colleagues are not very congenial travel companions at the moment. Good luck with the rest of the filming. I am sure you will be brilliant.’ He reached over to pat her hand, and then stood up to leave.
Eygló let him go. There were still twenty minutes till the boat left, and she wanted solitude.
‘Eygló?’
She turned in panic as she recognized the voice. It was Rósa. Where the hell had she come from?
Rósa sat down next to her, right next to her so they were almost touching. Rósa was a big woman. Eygló tensed.
‘Eygló. We need to talk.’
Thirty-Eight
Vigdís made her way to Ward Three of the National Hospital in Reykjavík. She was very familiar with the layout; a police officer was a regular visitor to hospitals one way or another. She asked at the nurse’s station which bed was Tryggvi Thór’s.
She was busy with all the activity following Nancy Fishburn’s murder and she didn’t have time for this. Fortunately, the hospital wasn’t far from the hotel where Nancy had died, and so she could slip away for half an hour. The crime scene was being processed, witnesses were being interviewed, reports were being written, but Magnus was right: all the answers lay in Greenland.
As she approached his bed, she saw a man she recognized standing next to it. He was in his fifties, tall, with close-cropped brown hair turning to grey and a thin red beard: Jakob Ingibergsson, the famous businessman who had cut quite a dash before the financial crash, and whose companies were still operating.
Tryggvi Thór obviously had friends in high places.
The businessman saw her hovering, and said a swift goodbye to Tryggvi Thór before leaving, ignoring her as he brushed past her.
Tryggvi Thór’s head was bandaged and a large rose of purple blood vessels blossomed on his cheek. Sharp brown eyes stared out at her from his ravaged face.
‘You’re Vigdís, aren’t you?’ he said before she had a chance to introduce herself. ‘Magnús’s pal?’
‘That’s right,’ said Vigdís.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing here. I told your colleague it was just an accident.’
‘Magnús asked me to check up on you. Can I sit down?’ Vigdís indicated the grey plastic chair next to his bed.
‘No.’
Vigdís sat on it anyway. It was still warm from the millionaire businessman’s arse. Magnus had warned her Tryggvi Thór would be difficult. She was sure she could handle him.
‘Róbert told me that you slipped and fell,’ she said, taking out her notebook. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’
‘I slipped and fell.’
Vigdís gave him one of her ‘don’t bullshit me’ looks. She had several. ‘You expect me to believe that? Only a few days after you were attacked at home?’
‘Yes, I do.’ They stared at each other for a couple of moments. ‘OK. I don’t remember exactly what happened. I think I must have fainted as a result of the head injury earlier this week, and I hit my head as I fell.’
Vigdís had to admit that sounded plausible.
‘You have to admit that sounds plausible,’ said Tryggvi Thór with a hint of a smile.
‘You would have died if that tourist hadn’t found you,’ said Vigdís.
The shadow of the smile dissolved. ‘I know. I was lucky.’
‘You might not be as lucky next time.’
Tryggvi Thór didn’t respond.
‘Magnús is concerned about you.’
‘Magnús should mind his own business. Now please leave.’
Vigdís sat there watching him.
A minute passed.
‘OK. If you’re not going to leave, tell me what it’s like being a black Icelander.’
Vigdís rolled her eyes. ‘You have got to be kidding! That’s none of your business.’
‘Neither is my head injury any of yours.’
‘It is my business if someone is trying to kill you,’ said Vigdís. ‘Actually, I don’t care too much about that, but I know Magnús does.’
‘Is he honest?’ Tryggvi Thór asked.
‘Of course he’s honest! He’s a policeman.’
Tryggvi Thór snorted. ‘I used to be a policeman. You and I know they are not all honest.’
‘Yes, you would know that since you got drummed out of the force for corruption.’
‘Well?’ said Tryggvi Thór.
Vigdís sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, Magnús is honest. Irritatingly, inflexibly honest.’
Tryggvi Thór smiled. ‘And you?’
Vigdís refused to respond to his smile, even though she wanted to. She nodded. ‘Yes. I’m honest too. Almost as bad as him.’
‘Good,’ said Tryggvi Thór. ‘I think I believe you.’
Vigdís snorted.
‘The reason I asked you what it was like being a black Icelander, Vigdís, is that my daughter is black. Very black: about the same shade as you.’
Vigdís knew from the reports on the earlier attack in Álftanes that Tryggvi Thór had returned from twenty years in Africa. She hadn’t read of a daughter.
‘What’s her name?’ she asked, in spite of herself.
‘Greta.’
‘And is she here in Iceland?’
‘She visits occasionally, but she is in medical school in Kampala. So. What’s it like?’
Vigdís sighed. Despite herself she was intrigued by a half-Icelandic, half-African woman whose father was a cop.
‘It’s crap, basically. I never met my dad: he was an American serviceman who left my mum before I was born. So I have been brought up entirely an Icelander. I’m just as much an Icelander as you: more in fact, because I have lived my whole life in this country.’
‘OK,’ said Tryggvi Thór. ‘So why is that crap?’
‘People don’t treat me like that. Icelandic people. I know we’re not supposed to be racist, but many of them can’t handle someone who is black and speaks Icelandic as well or better than them. They keep trying to speak to me in English. I don’t speak English.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because Greta barely speaks any Icelandic. I would like her to be Icelandic. Like you.’
‘What does her mother think about that?’
Tryggvi Thór’s face sagged. Vigdís knew she had made a mistake. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Tryggvi Thór said nothing.
‘Next time Greta comes to Iceland, tell her to get in touch with me.’ Vigdís left her card on Tryggvi Thór’s table. ‘We’ll communicate by tribal dance.’