Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

now.’
    Húsavík was on the north coast of Iceland. It looked as if the Canadians were ruling themselves out.
    Magnus called Matthías. ‘Any news from Interpol?’
    ‘The Italians have asked for a Blue Notice.’
    ‘Damn it. Is that really necessary?’
    ‘I asked for an update and that’s what they told me. You’d have thought they would have been happy with message traffic; after all, it was one of their own citizens who was
murdered.’
    Message traffic was the usual informal way that information was passed around Interpol without going through headquarters at Lyons. A Blue Notice was an official request for information on
suspects and was a royal pain in the ass. ‘Are they stalling or are they just being Italian?’
    ‘Both, I guess. I’ve almost got the Blue Notice together, though. I’ll send it in the next hour.’
    ‘We need to get at that computer! Isn’t there any way we can get around them? Go direct to the police in Milan?’
    ‘In Italy, no way. The Blue Notice should work. I’ll keep on top of them.’
    ‘Thanks, Matthías.’
    ‘Magnús?’ It was Árni. ‘Can I ask you something?’
    ‘Yes?’ Magnus was on his guard. Árni looked uncomfortable, as if he was about to own up to a screw-up.
    But that wasn’t it.
    ‘Do your brother and my sister have something going on?’
    ‘I don’t know, Árni. Whenever I look for him, he seems to be in Katrín’s bed. Maybe he just gets tired a lot?’
    ‘Very funny. I’m not sure he’s a good influence on her.’
    Magnus laughed out loud. ‘ He’s not a good influence on her ?’
    ‘Yeah. You know. She is my sister.’
    Magnus considered telling Árni about Katrín’s recent flirtation with lesbianism, about the smell of weed that often hung about the house when he got up in the morning, about
her homecomings on a Saturday or Sunday morning, out of her head on drink and probably other substances, in the company of God knows who.
    But he didn’t. He knew that one of the reasons Árni had suggested Magnus as a lodger was so that he could keep an eye on his sister, but although Magnus had seen a lot, he had never
told Árni any of it. It didn’t say much for Árni’s detection skills that he thought his sister was just a nice girl who dressed a little weirdly.
    But Magnus liked his housemate just the way she was.
    ‘Yes, you’re right to be concerned, Árni,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with Ollie.’
    He had switched cars. He felt vulnerable in the Vitara, which he had left in a residential street in a suburb a few kilometres from the middle of town, and got himself a silver
Ford Focus. He was parked on the eastern side of the Hallgrímskirkja church, the other side from Thórsgata. He had stopped shaving and bought himself a black woolly hat with a little
Icelandic flag on the front – not much of a disguise, but it might help.
    He had the engine on, partly to keep him warm – it could be pretty cold in Iceland in April – and partly to ensure he could pull out quickly. He had positioned himself so that the
car he was waiting for would drive straight past him.
    And there it was: an old dirt-encrusted Peugeot. It was easy to keep in sight as it followed the highway to the east through Reykjavík’s commercial suburbs, over the Ellidaá
River, past the new port and then finally off on to a smaller road into a settlement of newly built apartment blocks perched on a hill.
    The signs suggested the suburb was called Grafarholt.
    The car drove on and parked outside a modern block of flats opposite a rectangular white building that seemed to be some kind of church – a large black cross adorned one wall. He found a
spot in the car park of the neighbouring block which gave him a view. The young female priest climbed out of the car and rang a bell – not her own flat then. She waited a few moments before
the door was opened by a tall man in his thirties wearing a sweater. The priest disappeared inside with him.
    It was almost dark when she reappeared. She ignored her car, and walked rapidly towards the church, head bent, shoulders hunched. He watched as she pulled out some keys and let herself
inside.
    Ásta was distraught. Her conversation with Egill, the pastor of Gudrídur’s church, hadn’t really helped.
    There was only one thing to do.
    She let herself into the church and turned on the lights. She loved the place. It had a warmth and peace and spiritual tranquillity, which seemed extraordinary for a building