Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

his coat.
    A ring.
    The ring.
    But Ingileif hadn’t told anyone. She had been surprised when she had seen Pési driving up the Thjórsárdalur, she couldn’t think of any reason why he should be there. But her instinct was not to mention it to Magnus. She didn’t know why.
    She told herself it wasn’t important, and indeed, why should it be important? But she didn’t go the further step of asking herself why, if it wasn’t important, she hadn’t said anything.
    She was frustrated by Magnus’s behaviour. She liked to think that she had a pretty down-to-earth view of sex and relationships. Despite what Magnus implied, she didn’t jump into bed with every man she fancied. There might be the odd night with Lárus, but everyone knew there was nothing in the odd night with Lárus. Or everyone in Reykjavík did anyway.
    She had liked Magnus. And she had trusted him. Then suddenly he had pulled a girlfriend out of nowhere and more or less called her a slut.
    Jerk.
    The problem with the sudden deterioration in their relations was it made it more difficult for her to find out from Magnus whether Hákon really had killed her father, or indeed whether it was Tómas. She thought it unlikely that it was Tómas, but she didn’t know .
    She did know someone who would. Tómas’s mother.
    Her name was Erna, and Ingileif trusted her. She was a small woman with blonde curly hair, who had originally come from a village in the West Fjords where she had met Hákon when he had been serving as a priest there. Ingileif remembered the way Erna used to look up to her husband, not just literally, for Hákon was almost half a metre taller than his wife, but also how she seemed to submit to his will. But Erna was basically an honest, kind, sensible woman who had ensured that Tómas hadn’t grown up an emotional wreck. It must have taken a lot of courage for her to leave her husband when she did, but it was definitely a wise decision.
    She would know which of her son or her husband had killed the doctor. She would know.
    So Ingileif drove her old Polo out to Hella, a town about fifty kilometres to the south of Flúdir, which is where she knew Erna lived with her second husband.
    The drive was unpleasant in the fog, but at least there wasn’t much traffic on the road. She listened to the news on the radio, hoping for more information about Tómas, or possibly the arrest of the Reverend Hákon. There was none of that. But there was something about shots being fired in 101, a policeman being wounded and taken to hospital and an American citizen being held by the police.
    For a moment, a dreadful moment, Ingileif thought that the policeman was Magnus. But then they named him as Detective Árni Holm and she breathed again.
    She was absolutely sure Magnus was involved somehow, though. Perhaps he was the American citizen they had locked up.
    Hella was a modern settlement that lined the bank of the West Ranga river, the next one along after the Thjórsá. Ingileif had looked up Erna’s address from the national phone-directory website: her house was a single-storey building only thirty metres from the river, surrounded by a green garden. Ingileif had no idea whether Erna would be out at work, after all most Icelandic women had a job, but when Ingileif rang the doorbell, Erna answered.
    She recognized Ingileif immediately and ushered her in. Erna’s blonde hair was still blonde, but dyed nowadays, and she had put on weight. But her blue eyes still twinkled when she saw Ingileif, although they swiftly clouded again with worry. ‘Have you heard the dreadful news about Tómas?’ she said, as she busied herself in the kitchen organizing coffee.
    ‘I have,’ said Ingileif. ‘You can hardly miss it. It’s all over the papers. Have you seen him?’
    ‘No. The police won’t let me. I’ve spoken to his lawyer on the phone. She says that the police don’t have enough evidence to prove anything. I didn’t even know he knew this Agnar fellow. Why on earth would he murder the man? The lawyer said that it all had something to do with a manuscript the professor was trying to sell. Here, Ingileif, let’s go through and sit down.’
    The sitting room boasted a large picture window opening out on a view of the river, barely visible through the mist. Ingileif remembered that Erna’s husband was a manager in one of the local bank branches. He had obviously done well. Ingileif wondered, in the way that Icelanders had since the kreppa , whether the