Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

on every street corner. The truth was that the majority of drugs in Iceland were sold by Icelanders. But the Police Commissioner in particular was concerned about the possible future spread of foreign drugs gangs, the main candidates being Scandinavian motorcycle gangs, and the Lithuanians. There was as yet no sign of Latino gangs, or Russians, but the police were all on the lookout for them.
    Juska was holding up a welcome sign for a Mr Roberts. Árni slowed his pace to a saunter. As he did so a slim man with light brown skin approached the Lithuanian. From the reticence with which they greeted each other, it was clear that they had never met before.
    Árni let his bag slip from his fingers, and then knelt down to pick it up. The two men were speaking English, the Lithuanian’s accent was heavy, the other man’s was American. Not educated American, street American. Árni took a good look. The man was about thirty, wearing a black leather jacket, and he looked as if he could handle himself. He most certainly did not look like your typical American tourist in Iceland.
    Interesting.
    ‘Battle of Evermore’ rang out through the study as Hákon sat in his chair, eyes shut. The ring was on his finger as Led Zeppelin’s music washed over him.
    He was excited. The more he thought about it, the clearer he understood his role in the plans of the ring. Sadly, he was not to be the one through which the ring would unleash its power on the world. But he had been chosen as the catalyst by which the ring would escape from a thousand years in the Icelandic wilderness and make its way back into the centre of the world of men.
    An important role indeed.
    The murder of Agnar, the arrest of Tómas, these were not everyday events. The police were getting closer, but now that did not worry the pastor unduly. It was preordained.
    He listened to the haunting mandolin: ‘Waiting for the angels of Avalon’ . His thoughts returned to who it was who would be chosen to bear the ring after him. Tómas perhaps? Unlikely, the more he thought of it. Ingileif? No. Although she had always been a strong-willed girl, she was the last person he could imagine being corrupted. The big red-haired detective? Possible. He had an American accent and he exuded an aura of power and capability.
    For a moment Hákon wondered whether he should just give the detective the ring. But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
    The phone rang. The pastor turned down the music and answered. The conversation didn’t take long.
    When he had finished, he glanced again at the ring. Should he replace it in the altar, or should he take it with him?
    Events were picking up pace.
    He turned off the stereo, grabbed his coat and went out to the garage, the ring still firmly on his finger.
    A few kilometres south of Flúdir, Magnus and Ingileif came to the mighty Thjórsá. This was the longest river in Iceland, carrying cold green-white water in a torrent from the glaciers in the centre of the country south towards the Atlantic Ocean. They turned left, following the road up the valley towards Gaukur’s old farm of Stöng.
    The river glistened in the sunlight. On the left, scattered farms and the occasional church nestled in the lee of the crags, many of them still covered in snow. Ahead, to the right, loomed Hekla. That morning the summit was draped with cloud, darker than the white puffs which smattered the rest of the pale sky.
    At Ingileif’s direction, Magnus turned off the road and along a dirt track, winding up through the hills and into a small valley. His police-issued Skoda strained to maintain traction: the road was in poor condition and in places very steep. After a bone-rattling eight kilometres they finally came across a small white farm with a red roof nestling in the hillside at the head of its own little valley. Beneath the farm the obligatory lush green home meadow stretched down to a fast-flowing stream. The rest of the grass in the valley lurked brown and lacklustre, where it wasn’t still covered in snow.
    Álfabrekka.
    ‘“How fair the slopes are”,’ Ingileif said.
    Magnus smiled as he recognized the quotation from Njáls Saga . He finished it: ‘“Fairer than they have ever seemed to me before”.’
    As they pulled into the farmyard, a thin, sprightly man in his mid-fifties marched towards them, wearing blue overalls.
    ‘Good morning!’ he said, smiling broadly, his body almost quivering with the excitement of receiving visitors. ‘How