Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

asked his opinion, nor gave him any tasks in the investigation. And all this was watched by Thorkell Holm.
    Screw Baldur.
    Magnus’s head hurt. He had had quite a bit more than one beer in the Grand Rokk the night before, but had managed to go easy on the chasers. He was suffering from more of a thick head than a full blown hangover. But it was enough to put him in an uncooperative mood.
    Magnus would tell Baldur all about Tómas’s father in his own good time. When he had spoken to the pastor himself.
    Lawrence Feldman sat in the back seat of the black Mercedes four-wheel-drive and surveyed the prison buildings ahead of him. He was in the car park of Litla Hraun. The buildings themselves weren’t too bad, white, functional, surrounded by two layers of wire fencing. But the landscape surrounding them was bleak: flat, bare and brown, stretching across to the mountain slopes to the north. To the south lay the wide grey expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. At least there was some sunshine on this side of the pass.
    The journey from Reykjavík, only an hour away, had been exhilarating, as they drove up through the lava field into the clouds. Feldman thought he could well have been in Middle Earth, perhaps on the edge of Mordor, the home of the Dark Lord Sauron. There was no grass, no greenery, or not the greenery of home. Weird lichens and mosses, some of them a bright lime colour, some grey, some orange, clung to the rock. Patches of snow stretched up the mountainsides into the clouds. To the side of the road, plumes of steam rose up from the ground.
    Mordor. Where the shadows lie.
    A large black bird swooped down and alighted on a fence post only feet from the car. It opened its beak and croaked accusingly. It cocked its head on one side and seemed to be staring right at Feldman with one eye. A raven. The damn bird was weirding him out.
    Feldman had elected to remain in the car, while Kristján Gylfason, the lawyer he had hired to represent Gimli, had gone into the prison to fetch him. The stories the big red-haired policeman with the flaw-less American accent had told Feldman about the prison still unsettled him.
    A man emerged from a nearby building. He was a big guy, six-foot six, with long fair hair, a beard and a barrel chest, wearing blue overalls, and he was coming right towards the Mercedes. One of those depraved shepherds Feldman had heard about, no doubt. Feldman reached for the door lock, and was relieved to hear the comforting electronic clicks as he depressed it. The guy in the over-alls caught sight of him in the car, gave him a curt nod and a wave, and climbed into a Toyota pick-up.
    At last he saw the smooth besuited figure of Kristján emerge from the prison entrance, accompanied by a big man in a blue tracksuit, his stomach protruding in front of him. Feldman reached over, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
    ‘Gimli!’
    Gimli flopped into the back seat with a grunt. ‘How you doin’?’ he said.
    Feldman hesitated. This was the first time he had ever met Gimli in the flesh, but he felt he knew him so well. He was overcome with emotion. He leaned forward clumsily to give him a hug.
    Gimli sat still. ‘Steady on, mate,’ he said. He had a pronounced Yorkshire accent.
    Feldman broke away.
    ‘How was it?’ Feldman asked. ‘In there? Was it really bad?’
    ‘It were all right. Food’s OK. Mind you, the telly in this country is crap.’
    ‘What about the other prisoners? Did they treat you OK?’
    ‘Didn’t talk to them,’ Gimli said. ‘I kept meself to meself.’
    ‘That was wise,’ said Feldman. He looked closely at Gimli, trying to figure out if he was lying. Feldman would understand if he didn’t want to be too specific about his prison experiences.
    Gimli shifted uncomfortably under Feldman’s stare. ‘Thanks for your help, Lawrence. With Kristján and everything.’
    ‘Not at all. And please call me Isildur. I’ll call you Gimli.’
    Gimli turned towards Feldman, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I didn’t tell them anything, you know. Although they seemed to have figured a lot of it out theirselves. They found out about the saga, and the ring, for instance, but it weren’t me what told them.’
    ‘Of course not,’ said Feldman, instantly guilty about how much he had told the police under much less pressure.
    Kristján started the car and drove out of the prison grounds and back towards Reykjavík. Feldman was glad to get out of there. He glanced at his