Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

‘So what do we do?’ he asked eventually.
    ‘Tell Baldur. Look for likely hiding places. See if we’ve missed anything.’ Magnus glared at Árni. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’
    ‘I only got the response this morning.’
    ‘You could have told me back at the station.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    Magnus turned away to look out of the window at the grey boxes. He was lumbered with an idiot. And he wished his headache would go away.
    Birna Ásgrímsdóttir lived in a new concrete house with a bright red roof in a new development. Each house had its patch of lawn, together with optimistically planted saplings. Expensive SUVs littered the driveways. Wealthy. Comfortable. Soulless.
    Birna herself was softer, rounder and older than Ingileif. She had big blue eyes and pouting lips. She could have been attractive, but there was something sagging and sloppy about her. Two lines pointed downwards from the corners of her mouth. She was wearing tight, bulging jeans and a bright orange top.
    When she saw Magnus, she smiled, her eyes lingering over his body before moving up to his face.
    ‘Hello,’ she said.
    ‘Hello,’ said Magnus, disconcerted despite himself. ‘We are from the Metropolitan Police. We have come to ask you about the murder of Professor Agnar Haraldsson.’
    ‘How nice,’ said Birna. ‘Come in. Can I get you something to drink?’
    ‘Just coffee,’ said Magnus.
    Árni nodded. ‘Me too,’ he said, his voice a little hoarse. This woman had presence.
    They sat in the living room, waiting for the coffee. The furniture was new and characterless, and the room was dominated by a truly massive television, on which was some daytime American TV show in English that Magnus vaguely recognized. Satellite.
    Dotted around the living room were photographs. Most of them were of a stunning blonde girl of about eighteen wearing swimsuits and various sashes. Birna. A younger Birna. There were also a couple of pictures of a suave, dark-haired man wearing the uniform of Icelandair.
    Birna returned with the coffee. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you much, but I’ll try.’
    ‘Did you ever meet Agnar?’
    ‘No, never. You know about the family saga, I take it?’
    ‘Yes, yes we do.’
    ‘Well, Ingileif was handling all the negotiations. She did ask me whether I objected to her selling the thing, and I told her I didn’t give a toss.’
    ‘Did she tell you how the negotiations were progressing?’
    ‘No. In fact I haven’t spoken to her since then.’
    ‘Did she mention a ring?’
    Birna laughed out loud. ‘You don’t mean Gaukur’s ring?’
    ‘It seems that your grandfather found it sixty years ago, but then he hid it again. Agnar may have found it more recently, or he may have claimed he did.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Birna said. ‘If there ever was a ring it was lost centuries ago. Let me tell you something,’ she said, leaning forward towards Magnus. He could smell some kind of alcohol on her breath. In his current state it was all he could do not to recoil. ‘That ring and that saga are just trouble. It’s all a load of bullshit. Don’t believe a word of it. I tell you Ingileif should have sold the damn thing, especially if she could have done it in secret.’
    ‘Are you and Ingileif close?’
    Birna leaned back in her chair. ‘That’s a good question. We were once, very. After my father died my mother married again, and I had some trouble with my stepfather. Even though she was two years younger than me, Ingileif helped me a lot. Got me through it. But after that, we kind of drifted apart. We lead different lives now. I married a jerk, and Ingileif does her designer stuff.’
    ‘Trouble with your stepfather?’
    Birna looked at Magnus again, this time at his eyes, as if deciding whether to trust him. ‘Is this relevant to your investigation?’
    Magnus shrugged. ‘It might be. I won’t know until you tell me.’
    Birna pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and after offering one to Magnus and Árni, lit up.
    ‘I was fourteen when my father died. I was a pretty girl.’ She nodded towards the photographs. ‘My mother got it into her head that I should become Miss Iceland. She became obsessed with it. As bad as Dad and his saga. I think it might have been a way of trying to deal with his death, putting it out of her mind. Of course it didn’t work.’
    She smiled. ‘I never managed better than third, but Mum and I tried really hard. In the middle of all that, she