Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

Lawrence Feldman or whoever the hell he was. He would continue looking for the ring, or a ring, and hope that Árni came back with something useful.
    He checked his e-mails.
    There was one from Colby.
Magnus ,
Last night one of your big ugly friends broke into my apartment and attacked me. He put a gun in my mouth and asked me where you were. I said you were in Sweden and he went away.
He scared the shit out of me.
I’m gone. They won’t find me. You won’t find me. No one knows where I am, not my family, not my friends, not the people at work, not the cops, and I’m definitely not telling you.
Magnus, you have screwed up my life and nearly gotten me killed.
Rot in hell wherever you are. And don’t ever EVER talk to me again.
C.
There was a short e-mail accompanying it.
Hello Magnus ,
Sorry about the delay in forwarding this – I was out of the office yesterday. I’m checking it out.
Agent Hendricks
    Magnus stared at the screen. Emotions flooded over him, leaving him gasping for air. Drowning.
    Anger at the scumbag who had done this to Colby. At Williams for not protecting her. At Colby herself for not understanding that it wasn’t his fault.
    Anger with himself for letting it happen.
    Guilt, because of course it was his fault.
    Powerlessness, stuck in Reykjavík, thousands of miles away.
    Guilt again, because in the last twenty-four hours he had thought very little about Colby, had almost forgotten her when she was in the greatest of danger.
    He slammed his fist hard on his desk. There were only a couple of detectives in the room, but they both turned to stare.
    At least Colby hadn’t said where he really was. Although at this point he didn’t care. At this point he thought of jumping on a plane to Boston, finding Pedro Soto personally and blowing him away. Why should he lurk cowering away in Iceland? He wasn’t a coward.
    He tapped out an angry e-mail to Deputy Superintendent Williams, via Agent Hendricks, telling him what had happened and asking him where the hell the protection that he had promised Magnus was.
    If the Boston PD couldn’t protect Colby, then Magnus would fly over and do it himself. It wasn’t as if he would be allowed to do anything useful in Iceland.
    Ingileif waited in Mokka, toying with a latte. She liked the café, one of the oldest in Reykjavík, on the corner of Skólavördustígur and Laugavegur. Small, wood panelled and cosy, it was famous both for its waffles and for its clientele: artists, poets and novelists. The walls acted as a kind of rotating art exhibition for local artists, changing once a month. In March it had been her partner from the gallery’s turn.
    There was a newspaper lying on the table, but she didn’t pick it up. It had been a good afternoon – she had sold six vases worth several hundred thousand krónur. But she had also had an awkward conversation with one of her partners about the delay in payments due from Nordidea.
    She hadn’t exactly lied, but she hadn’t exactly told the truth, either.
    The whole business with the saga and Agnar’s death had made her think again about her father. She could clearly remember the last morning she saw him. He had been walking out of the house with his rucksack when he had paused, turned and kissed her goodbye. She could remember what he was wearing – his blue anorak, his new lightweight hiking boots. She could remember the smell of him, the mints he used to like to suck. She also remembered her feelings of irritation towards him because he had forbidden her to sleep over at her friend’s house the night before. She hadn’t really forgiven him that dreadful morning.
    There were all those questions now swirling around the death of Agnar, but there had been very few about her father. In Iceland, a man stumbling to his death in a snowstorm was an all too common occurrence, a feature of Icelandic life over the centuries.
    Perhaps there should have been more questions. Perhaps there should be more questions now.
    ‘Hi, Inga!’
    The other patrons of the café stared at the man who addressed her, but only for a couple of seconds, before returning to their conversations and their newspapers. Icelanders were proud of their ability to let famous people get on with their lives in public. Although of course there was only one truly famous Icelander, and that was Björk, but the people of Reykjavík let her go as she pleased in their town.
    ‘Tómas! How good to see you!’ She stood up and kissed him on the