Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

someone!
Kind Regards
Barry Fletcher
Senior Lecturer
School of Languages and Linguistics
University of New South Wales
    ‘Well, the first message is pretty clear. The second was sent at eleven p.m., the night of the murder, right?’ Magnus said.
    ‘That’s right. As soon as Jubb got back to the hotel having seen Agnar.’
    ‘No wonder he needed to talk, if he had just pushed a dead body into the lake.’
    ‘I wonder what the kallisar— whatever-it-is word means?’ Árni asked.
    Magnus pondered it for a moment. ‘Manuscript? “He has the manuscript.” That would make sense.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Árni.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds as if Agnar has something else. Something he wants more money for. That Jubb wants to speak to Isildur to discuss whether he should pay for it.’
    Magnus sighed. His patience was running low. ‘Árni! We know Agnar died that night. This message explains he was holding out for a lot more money. So Jubb killed him and he needed to speak to the boss once he had done it. Simple. Happens in drug deals back home all the time. Now, let’s show this to Baldur. He’s going to want to discuss this with Jubb.’
    Árni followed Magnus to Baldur’s office. It didn’t seem quite that simple to him, but Árni was used to being wrong on police matters. He had learned the important thing was not to make too much of a fuss over his mistakes, and not to let them get him down.
    Vigdís drove up the winding road to Hruni. It had taken her nearly two hours to get there from Reykjavík; a long way to go just to tick off a name on a list. But Baldur had insisted that every appointment in Agnar’s diary should be investigated, and so now it was time to check the mysterious entry Hruni .
    She passed two or three cars coming the other way, and then she rounded a bend and came upon the valley in which Hruni nestled. As Rannveig had said there was nothing there apart from a church and a rectory beneath a crag. And a view over the meadows to distant mountains.
    The Sunday service must just have finished. There were three cars parked on the gravel apron in front of the church. Two of them drew away as Vigdís came to a stop. In front of the church two figures, one very large, one very small, were in deep discussion. The pastor of Hruni and one of his parishioners.
    Vigdís hung back until the conversation had finished and the old lady, her cheeks flushed, hobbled rapidly to her small car and drove off.
    The pastor turned towards Vigdís. He was a big block of a man, with a thick beard and dark hair flecked with grey. For a moment she felt a flash of fear at his sheer size and power, but she was re-assured by the clerical collar around his neck. Bushy eyebrows rose. Vigdís was used to that.
    ‘Vigdís Audarsdóttir, Reykjavík Metropolitan Police,’ she said.
    ‘Really?’ said the man in a deep voice.
    Vigdís sighed and took out her identification. The pastor examined it carefully.
    ‘May I have a word with you?’ she asked.
    ‘Of course,’ said the pastor. ‘Come into the house.’ He led Vigdís into the rectory through to a study cluttered with books and working papers. ‘Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, my child?’
    ‘I’m not a child,’ said Vigdís. ‘I’m a police officer. But yes, thank you.’
    She moved a pile of yellowing journals off the seat of a sofa and on to the floor. As she waited for the pastor to return, she examined his study. Open volumes sprawled over a large desk and books lined the walls. Any bare patches were adorned with old prints of various scenes from Icelandic history: a man on the back of a seal or a whale in the sea; a church tumbling down, no doubt Hruni itself; and three or four etchings of Mount Hekla erupting.
    Through the window Vigdís could see the modern-day church of Hruni, red and white, spick and span, nestled among ancient gravestones and scrappy trees.
    The pastor returned with two cups of coffee, and lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. It creaked with his weight. ‘Now, how can I help you, my dear?’ His voice was deep and he was smiling, but his eyes, deep-set and dark, challenged her.
    ‘We are investigating the death of Professor Agnar Haraldsson. He was murdered on Thursday.’
    ‘I read about it in the papers.’
    ‘We understand that Agnar visited Hruni quite recently.’ Vigdís checked her notes. ‘The twentieth. Last Monday. Did he come to see