Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
    ‘Shit.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
    Friday 16 April 2010
    M AGNUS WOKE UP early. Thoughts of Ingileif had been tumbling around his mind, and he felt as if he hadn’t
actually slept. He realized he had time to get to Laugardalur swimming pool before going into the station and the morning meeting scheduled for eight-thirty. He needed the energy boost.
    He listened to the radio as he got dressed. Ash had been falling heavily on the countryside near Eyjafjallajökull, blotting out the sun and closing roads. Farms were ruined; livestock had
been shut indoors. It sounded as if the countryside Magnus had been driving through two days before had been turned into a post-apocalyptic nightmare of darkness and ash.
    A man on the radio was talking about the Great Haze of the eighteenth century when the whole island had been covered in an ash cloud from the eruption of the volcano Laki. Summer failed to come
for two years; three-quarters of the nation’s livestock died, as did a quarter of the human population, which was reduced to a mere 38,000. They had considered abandoning the island for
Denmark. Europe and North America had been affected: subsequent poor harvests were said to have contributed to the French Revolution.
    This eruption wasn’t quite that bad. Yet. But flights were cancelled for another day.
    A quick drive to the pool and then he was undressing again. Was Ingileif right? Was Magnus just a conventional American hung up on high-school rules of dating?
    Throughout their relationship, or whatever it was, Ingileif had maintained the initiative, keeping Magnus confused. She was always in control: she knew what was going on and he didn’t. He
felt like a mug.
    The open-air pool was already filling up. As Magnus left the changing rooms, the cold air bit into his skin, causing him to take a sharp breath. Goose bumps sprouted all over his arms. The
temperature wasn’t that far above zero, probably three or four degrees.
    He adjusted his goggles and plunged into the wonderfully warm water, and began to swim. In a minute he was in the rhythm.
    Ingileif. Her anger the night before had been more than a little tantrum to keep him off balance. He knew her well enough to see that when she walked out, she meant it. She was seriously
angry.
    Another length.
    A glimmer of understanding. She was angry with herself. She had perhaps intended to spend a couple of nights with Magnus for old times’ sake, for a bit of fun. But it had meant more than
that to him and she could see it. She knew she was betraying him, hurting him, and she knew that it was wrong. So she had pulled away. Blaming him because she couldn’t blame herself.
    So what was she going to do now? Go back to Kerem, whoever he was, the poor bastard.
    Magnus swam faster. Understanding what Ingileif was doing didn’t change the basic fact. She was dicking him around. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
    He got out of the pool, the cold air now wonderfully refreshing on his glowing skin. A quick shower and then dressed.
    He checked his phone. A message. Árni.
    He called back. ‘Hi, Árni. What’s up?’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘In the pool. What is it?’
    ‘There’s been a homicide. Grafarholt. You’d better get there now. I’m on my way.’
    ‘Can’t Baldur deal with it?’ Magnus said. ‘I need to focus on the Andreose case.’
    ‘You’ll want to be there,’ Árni said. ‘Gudrídur’s church in Grafarholt.’
    Magnus had a bad feeling. ‘Who’s the victim?’ he asked, although as he uttered the words he realized he knew the answer.
    Ásta was lying face down in front of the altar, her blue eyes open. The back of her skull was a gory mess and there was a significant amount of dried blood on the tiles
beside her. Baldur had just arrived and he and Magnus bent over the body.
    ‘Blow to the back of the head,’ said Baldur. He scanned the church. It was full of heavy loose metal objects – crosses, candlesticks, lecterns –although they all appeared
to be in their proper places. Both he and Magnus were wearing forensic overalls, but Baldur took his gloves off to touch Ásta’s cheek.
    ‘Cool,’ he said. He tried to move the arm. Stiff. Rigor mortis had set in. Magnus was disconcerted at the potential contamination of the crime scene, but he didn’t say
anything. Baldur was the boss; and after all it was Baldur’s DNA that would show up in the results.
    ‘Assuming the heating