Far North - Michael Ridpath [46]
Which was why Magnus would have to go and speak to Unnur Ágústsdóttir, and open the lid of that box just a little wider.
‘Magnus?’
‘That’s me.’ He looked down at a short woman with blonde hair, a worn face but a friendly smile.
‘Sharon Piper.’ She held out her hand and he shook it.
‘Flight OK?’
‘Bumpy landing in all that wind. Do you have any trees on this island? I thought we were coming down on to the moon.’
‘They used to tell the GIs before their posting here that there was a blonde Viking virgin tied to every tree.’
‘Is that what persuaded you to come?’
‘I am actually Icelandic,’ Magnus said. ‘I’ve lived in the States since I was twelve. But even for me it takes some getting used to. Are you OK to go straight to police headquarters or do you want to go to your hotel first?’
‘Let’s get down to work.’
As Magnus drove Piper along the thirty kilometre stretch of straight road from the airport at Keflavík to Reykjavík he kept two hands firmly on the steering wheel as gusts of wind buffeted the Range Rover.
‘Is the whole country like this?’ asked Piper, staring out of the window at the brown volcanic rubble.
‘Not all of it,’ said Magnus. ‘There was a big eruption around here a few thousand years ago. You can see where the moss is beginning to eat away at the lava. Eventually, in a few more thousand years, it will become soil and grass will grow.’
‘Do you really think the human race won’t have permanently screwed up the earth in the next few thousand years?’
‘Er, no,’ said Magnus. An environmental cop. That was a new animal for him, although he suspected there were quite a few in Iceland.
‘You say the eruption was that long ago? It looks more like ten years. Or last year. How can people live here?’
‘They’re a tough lot, the Icelanders. There was a time in the eighteenth century when one of the volcanoes erupted and the whole country was covered in a haze for several years. Crops died, animals died, the population got down to less than thirty thousand. They thought about quitting then, but they stayed.’
‘They?’ Piper said. ‘You said “they”.’
Magnus smiled. ‘You’re right. I guess I meant “we”. I feel a bit like a foreigner in my own country.’
‘Where are you from in the States?’
‘Boston. I worked as a detective in the Homicide Unit. Same kind of thing you do. More guns, I guess.’
‘Probably,’ said Piper. ‘Although there are a hell of a lot of guns in London these days.’
‘Do you feel vulnerable not carrying?’ Magnus asked. It was something he had always wondered about the British police.
‘Most of the time, no,’ Piper said. ‘We do have more and more officers who are firearms trained. I haven’t been threatened with a gun yet. Have you?’
‘A few times,’ said Magnus. ‘That’s one of the things I find difficult here. Cops don’t carry guns.’
‘Do the criminals? That’s the key question, I suppose.’
‘Not until I showed up,’ Magnus said. That was not one of his proudest moments, luring a Dominican hit man from Boston to Reykjavík with a gun that he had managed to plug Árni with. The real problem with guns was when you ended up shooting the bad guys. Magnus had done that twice, once at the start of his career when he was a uniformed officer on patrol, and once earlier on that year when a couple of guys were trying to kill him.
He still had the dreams. A bald fat guy on the street in Roxbury telling him he had some information about a homicide Magnus was investigating. Stupidly following the guy down the alleyway. Too late realizing that the kid on the corner had an out-ofneighbourhood gang tattoo. Diving, turning, shooting. The kid falling. Spinning around, plugging the fat guy on the crown of his bald head. And then doing it all again and again all night.
But Magnus still felt naked without a weapon.
The truck in front wobbled as a gust of wind tried to sweep it off the road.
‘Jesus.’ Piper tensed and reached out for the dashboard in front of her.
Magnus gripped the Range Rover’s steering wheel harder. White spray whipped off the top of the waves skimming the ocean to their