And it was going to get worse.
In another couple of minutes Magnus would lose the ability to keep his own face above water. He had to get to the boat before that.
He let go of Beccari and struck out for the boat. But he was losing strength; not just strength, he was losing control over his body. For the first minute or so he made some progress, but then even that stopped. There was a tiny current which was gently tugging him away from the boat. Once again, in normal circumstances, he could easily have overcome it, but now all he could do was keep his head above water.
He wasn’t going to be able to do that for much longer.
He was going to drown.
His left arm went first. It would no longer move, and his right was barely making any upward pressure.
He was going to drown.
His life didn’t flash in front of his eyes, but he did think: Who would care? His parents were dead. His brother Ollie would be pleased. Vigdís and Árni would be upset, it was true, as would Ingileif.
And then he thought of the little boy with the red hair peering over the wall at him on Borgartún, with those piercing blue eyes.
He sank beneath the surface.
He flailed his remaining failing arm and kicked with both legs. His face met the air and he took a gulp.
And then he sank.
His right arm wasn’t working properly now, but he summoned all the strength he could in his legs for one more surge. He broke the surface, another gulp and under again.
A hand grabbed him under the chin and yanked. This time his face broke the surface and stayed out of the water.
‘Come on, Magnus, you big bastard, keep swimming!’ It was Paulsen’s voice. ‘You can do it. Help me now.’ He could feel her body in the water bumping behind him.
He tried, pushing downwards with his one arm, kicking feebly with his barely responsive legs.
He tried to say something to Paulsen, but all he could do was gasp for air. She was tugging him along towards the moored motorboat. He kicked and paddled, trying to do his bit to keep moving, keep his mouth and nose above the surface, keep alive.
His eardrums were underwater and he heard the urgent buzz of an engine. It became louder and half a minute later a large bright orange shape surged into his peripheral view.
‘Grab this,’ said Paulsen as she shoved a red and white plastic ring into his arms. He clutched it. It floated.
He floated.
Several strong arms grabbed him and heaved him upwards and over the edge of the boat. He was shivering uncontrollably as someone thrust a blanket over his shoulders.
Paulsen sat next to him. Her uniform was sodden, her long black hair hanging in damp strands down her broad face, but she was barely even shaking. She was a Greenlander: built to dive into near-freezing water and emerge unscathed.
Magnus wasn’t.
Paulsen flashed him that unexpected sweet smile. ‘Are you OK?’
Magnus tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering so much, he settled for a nod.
He fought to control his jaws. ‘Where’s Beccari?’
‘We’ll fish him out next,’ said Paulsen.
‘Good.’
Paulsen put a hand on Magnus’s shaking arm. ‘You know, Magnus? He wasn’t worth it.’
Fifty-Two
‘So, Inspector Magnús, who did you think was most likely to have killed Carlotta Mondini when you took on the case?’ Eygló looked up at Magnus, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted as if the words he was about to utter would be the most fascinating she had ever heard. They were standing on the strip of green that ran beside the bay in front of the National Police Commissioner’s Office, more photogenic than the police headquarters, which was a squat office block around the corner by the bus station.
He couldn’t help responding with warmth. Suzy had told him not to act like a policeman following best procedure, but rather like an inquisitive sleuth. Magnus understood the difference, and Eygló made it easy. ‘I didn’t know. You always have to keep an open mind. It could have been a local who had never met her before: there had been a series of rapes in the north of Iceland. Or it might have been someone from her past life in Italy. But a tourist murdered in this way is unheard of in Iceland.’
‘Yet the cause of her death turned out to be an Icelandic woman who had been dead for nearly a thousand years.’
Magnus grinned. ‘That’s not so surprising. There were plenty of murders in Gudrid’s day. Iceland was a much less peaceful place.’
‘Cut!’ shouted Suzy. ‘That was great, Magnus.’ She glanced at Siggi, the new Icelandic cameraman, who nodded. ‘Ajay?’
‘It’s good,’ said the sound man.
‘That’s a wrap, then. Glaumbaer tomorrow!’
Suzy had come up with ingenious ways of interweaving the hoax and its discovery, as well as the murders of Carlotta and Nancy, into the existing documentary. The BBC had loved it when she had pitched it over the phone. The Greenland takes would have to stay as they were, but a few new scenes involving Magnus in Reykjavík and Glaumbaer should set the scene for the murder investigation. The National Police Commissioner had been more than happy to release Magnus for the job. The Ministry of Tourism was keen that Carlotta’s death should be seen as something other than the random murder of an unlucky tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Carlotta’s parents had given their blessing too, and had even returned to Iceland to be interviewed.
Kelly had agreed to talk about her grandmother; in fact she had been eager to. Nancy Fishburn was emerging as a heroine of the story, a tragic heroine, given her death. Magnus had his qualms about murder as entertainment, and about bailing Suzy out after her attempts to keep the knowledge of the hoax to herself. But it was a story that should be told, and Magnus was enjoying his part in telling it.
They had decided to keep Rósa’s death out of it. It complicated things, and Eygló and Suzy had no desire to pile more pressure on Einar.
Rósa’s death had broken him. He didn’t care about the discovery of the hoax; he didn’t care about his academic reputation or even his post at the university, who had given him a term’s sabbatical. Eygló made sure she saw him every day, and did her best to convince Einar he had always done his best for Rósa.
‘That was very good, Magnus,’ said Suzy. ‘You and Eygló seem to have some real chemistry going, don’t you think, Halla?’
Halla was in charge of press relations for the Metropolitan Police, and was keeping an eye on proceedings. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, grinning at Magnus. For a press officer, she was not known for her discretion.
‘Magnus is a true professional,’ said Eygló neutrally.
‘Of course,’ said Suzy. ‘You’re sure you can give us a lift to Glaumbaer tomorrow, Magnus?’
‘No problem.’
Production costs had been cut right down to the bone. Tom had been sent back to England, never to work with Suzy again. Eygló had begged a friend of her sister’s to do the camera work for no payment up front and the risk of no payment at all. Ajay was still providing his labour free. Suzy was staying on Eygló’s sofa, and Ajay with one of her sisters. There would be post-production costs, but Suzy was doing this on a shoestring. Half a shoestring.
‘Have you got time for a walk?’ Eygló asked.
‘Sure,’ said Magnus. He was still working his way through the paperwork, or computerwork, brought about by three murders in two jurisdictions committed by a dual citizen of a third and a fourth. The paperwork wasn’t going anywhere.
The sun was out, at least temporarily, and a fresh breeze skipped in from the bay. On one side of them, manic Icelandic drivers misguided tons of metal in unpredictable directions along the Saebraut. On the other, a crowd of ducks, cormorants and swans went about their city business. On the far shore, Mount Esja overlooked it all, its rocky flanks glowing a soft, splendid gold.