Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

Boston . . .’ Magnus said.
    ‘Here we go,’ said Ollie, eyeing his brother as he took a gulp of his beer.
    ‘I did what you wanted,’ Magnus said. ‘I haven’t asked anyone any more questions here about Dad.’
    ‘Thanks, bro, I appreciate it.’
    ‘But I want to.’ Magnus leaned forward. ‘You’ve seen the wall in my room. It’s true I want to know what happened to him. I need to know. It was why I joined
Boston PD in the first place. It’s like I feel every murder I investigate is his murder, except I never get to solve it. Or re solve it. So I go on to the next and the next.’
    ‘I can’t help you with that shit, Magnus,’ Ollie said.
    ‘But you can, that’s just it. I think finally I might be getting there. When we go back to the house I’ll show you the wall. There is this writer called Benedikt
Jóhannesson who was killed in 1985 in Reykjavík with exactly the same MO as Dad.’
    ‘MO?’
    ‘ Modus operandi . Method. A stab wound in the back and two in the chest. Just like Dad.’
    ‘Except Dad was killed five thousand miles away and ten years later.’
    ‘Two thousand miles.’
    ‘Whatever. You get my point.’
    ‘Yes, but Benedikt was brought up at Hraun, over the lava field from Bjarnarhöfn. You remember the place?’
    ‘I remember as little as possible of all that.’
    ‘Well, he was. And they’ve got some kind of family feud going. Grandpa’s father Gunnar killed Benedikt’s father, and then Benedikt killed Gunnar.’
    ‘So you think Grandpa killed them both?’
    ‘Not necessarily. He’s left-handed for a start and the killer was right-handed. Also there is no record of Grandpa ever going to America, let alone him being there when Dad was
murdered in 1996.’
    ‘Sounds to me like you’ve got the wrong guy then,’ Ollie said.
    ‘Perhaps. But I know I can find the right guy.’
    ‘So what are you saying?’
    ‘That I’m going to start asking more questions about our family. About Benedikt. About Dad.’
    ‘But you promised not to!’ Anger flared in Ollie’s eyes.
    ‘I know, and now I’ve changed my mind.’
    Ollie put his head in his hands. ‘Look, I’m just about getting my shit together again, Magnus. This is the last thing I need now. What happened at Bjarnarhöfn was really bad for
me. I get nightmares about that potato cellar that Grandpa shoved me into. The dark. The cold. The smell. The slime of those rotten potatoes. It might not sound like much but I was a little kid, my
mother was drunk all the time, my father had abandoned me and this horrible man made my life hell.’
    ‘I was there.’
    Ollie smiled. ‘Yeah, you were there for me. You’re always there for me. Which is why I’m begging you to leave all this alone, man.’
    ‘But what if I don’t tell you what I discover? What difference would that make to you?’
    ‘Oh, come on. You will tell me. You’ll drag me back to that hellhole one way or another. Come on, man!’ Anger was rising in Ollie’s voice. ‘You know I’ve been
to different shrinks over the years. They all say the same thing, and frankly it’s a pretty easy diagnosis. My problems come from those four years at Bjarnarhöfn.’
    ‘And mine come from the year Dad died.’
    ‘You can handle it better than me,’ Ollie said, jabbing his finger at his brother. ‘You’ve always been able to handle things better than me.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ said Magnus. ‘But I am going to do some more investigation. I won’t tell you what I discover, if you like, but I’m going to ask those
questions.’
    Ollie’s lips were pursed and his head was shaking in anger and frustration. ‘You’re gonna push me over the edge here, Magnus. I’m not kidding you, man.’
    Magnus didn’t reply.
    Ollie finished his beer. ‘Let’s go back. I’m tired.’
    They walked back to Njálsgata in silence. Back at the house, Ollie was just about to go through to Katrín’s room when Magnus touched his arm.
    ‘Ollie?’
    Ollie glared at his brother.
    ‘Why did you come to Iceland?’ Magnus asked. ‘If you wanted to leave all this behind you?’
    ‘See the sights. Catch some rays. Spend some quality time with my brother. What do you think?’
    His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and before Magnus could reply he had gone through to Katrín’s room.
    Magnus had no idea what to think. He stomped up the stairs to his own room.
    He stared at the wall. At the photograph of his father. At the picture of Benedikt Jóhannesson.
    He knew Ollie’s