Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

been someone else.’ And then her eyes lit up. ‘Wait a minute. It can’t have been Tómas!’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because he was with me that weekend. In Reykjavík. He was singing in the Hallgrímskirkja with the village choir. I went to listen. We stayed with my sister in Reykjavík that Saturday night.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Oh, I’m quite sure. We didn’t get back until Sunday evening. I can remember seeing Hákon when we arrived home. He had only just got back from the hills. He was in a terrible state.’ She smiled at Ingileif. ‘You see. My son is innocent!’
    The three men were squashed into Axel’s car, parked a hundred metres down the road from the house which Ingileif had entered. Axel was at the wheel, Isildur was in the back, and Gimli was in the passenger seat, a computer opened on his lap. With expense no object, Axel had planted four bugs on Ingileif when he had broken in in the small hours of the previous night. One in her bag, one in her coat, one in her studio bedroom – that had been the trickiest – and one in the car. The bug in the car doubled as a tracking device, and the location of the car was flashing on the GPS map on the computer.
    The tracker had allowed them to follow Ingileif at a safe distance all the way from Reykjavík to Hella. They had driven by the house at which she had stopped and then parked out of sight. The bug in the coat was transmitting loud and clear, but in Icelandic, through a receiver which was plugged into the laptop. Axel mumbled half-translations as he listened, but they were frustratingly incomplete.
    When Axel started muttering about a ring, Isildur couldn’t contain his impatience to find out more, but Axel refused to explain further, not wanting to miss any of the conversation.
    As soon as Ingileif left the house, Isildur asked Axel for a translation.
    ‘Shouldn’t we follow her?’ said Axel.
    ‘We can catch her up later. The tracker will show us where she is. I want a full translation, and I want it now!’
    Axel pulled the computer off Gimli’s lap and tapped some keys. The conversation was recorded on the computer’s hard drive. He went through the whole thing slowly and methodically.
    Isildur was beside himself with excitement. ‘Where’s this church?’ he demanded. ‘The place where the ring is hidden?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Axel. ‘The nearest church to Hella is a place called Oddi. It’s not far.’
    ‘It sounds like they were neighbours when Ingileif was young,’ said Gimli. ‘This Hákon is obviously Tómas Hákonarson’s father. Do we know where he was born? Where he grew up? Or for that matter where Ingileif grew up? It might not have been Hella. It sounded to me as if this Erna woman had moved out, or moved away.’
    ‘Google him,’ said Isildur. ‘You got Google in Iceland, right?’
    ‘Google who?’
    ‘Tómas Hákonarson. If he’s a big star in this country, there will be a bio on him somewhere.’
    Axel called up the search engine, tapped out some words, clicked and scrolled. ‘Here he is. He was born in a village in the West Fjords, but was brought up in Flúdir. That’s not too far from here.’
    ‘Well, let’s go to Flúdir church, then!’ said Isildur. ‘Get a move on!’
    Axel handed the laptop back to Gimli and started up the car.
    ‘Hruni is the nearest church to Flúdir,’ said Axel. ‘This man must be the pastor of Hruni.’ He grinned.
    ‘What’s so special about that?’
    ‘Let’s just say it fits.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
    A S MAGNUS DROVE up the valley of the Thjórsá towards Mount Hekla, lurking behind the cloud somewhere to the south-east, the landscape became progressively bleaker. Grass gave way to black rock and mounds of sand, like the detritus of a massive abandoned coalfield. The river flowed past the rounded lump of stone several hundred feet high known as Búrfell, home to trolls in the old folk tales. Just beyond, the road crossed a smaller river, the Fossá, a tributary of the Thjórsá, but still powerful, and Magnus came to a junction and a sign. Well, two signs. One said Stöng . The other Road Closed .
    Magnus turned. It wasn’t a road. It wasn’t even a track. There were twists, turns, steep hills, sharp drops. At one point the road was nothing but black sand. Mist swirled around Magnus as he cajoled his car through the blackened terrain. Below and to the left, the Fossá surged. Fingers of snow reached down from the mountains above, and indeed the road