Far North - Michael Ridpath [71]
Magda looked at him steadily, her eyes warm, without judgement.
‘Honest,’ he said.
‘OK,’ she said at last, and turned back to the sea.
The sun slipped further. ‘You’re right,’ said Frikki. ‘I did steal it. Some idiot left it on the front seat of his car. Mine was bust and I needed a computer. I had to keep in touch with you. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ said Magda.
She didn’t say: ‘but it was still wrong’. She didn’t have to.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Frikki. ‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Of course, I can forgive you,’ said Magda. ‘But what I really want to do is help you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Magda took hold of his hand. ‘I love you, Frikki. I’m sure this year has been hard for you. I know you’ve been trying to hide it, but I can see you are letting things go. Doing things you shouldn’t do.’
‘You’re right,’ said Frikki, giving her hand a quick squeeze. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Magda didn’t smoke.
‘What did the police want to see you about?’
‘I don’t want to say,’ said Frikki.
‘Was it stealing?’
Frikki didn’t answer. Magda removed her hand. They sat in silence.
‘It was worse than that,’ said Frikki. ‘A lot worse.’
‘Tell me.’
Frikki took a deep breath. And told her.
Magnus went to Ingileif’s apartment that evening. As she cooked supper she talked about her day in the gallery and quizzed him about the case. He told her about missing Björn at Grundarfjördur and about Harpa’s visit to Óskar in London. He mentioned nothing about Unnur.
After dinner he called Sharon Piper in London to tell her about the interview with Harpa. Unsurprisingly, Harpa had said nothing once her lawyer had arrived, and following Baldur’s instructions Magnus had let her go. Magnus also told Sharon about Ísak, the student at the London School of Economics who had had an argument with Harpa the night Gabríel Örn had died. Sharon agreed to talk to him.
When he had finished the call, Ingileif picked up her cello. She was still quite a serious player and practised almost every day. Magnus liked to listen to her, or to read while she was playing. She started on one of her favourites, a piece by Brahms. Magnus knew that whenever he heard that particular piece in future he would think of her.
It was all very domestic. And yet there were things that Magnus didn’t understand about Ingileif. They were not ‘in a relationship’ in the American sense of the word. Ingileif came and went as she pleased, made her own plans. Magnus wasn’t quite sure what his role in her life was. Should they spend time together at the weekend? Should he ask her what she was doing? What was she doing?
Sometimes Magnus wondered whether she was seeing other men. He had asked her once and she had denied it and got angry at him for even thinking it. But he was still suspicious. Perhaps that was because he was a cop, always suspicious.
He dispelled those uncomfortable thoughts from his mind and opened the novel Unnur had given him, Moor and the Man. He decided to read chapters one and two before getting on to chapter three.
It was about a family recently arrived in Reykjavík in 1944. The war and the British and American occupation of Iceland had brought wealth to the country. The man of the title was a young farm labourer named Arnór from an unspecified area of the countryside who had moved to Reykjavík looking for work. The book was well written and the story had gripped Magnus by the time he turned to chapter three, a flashback to Arnór’s childhood.
It was spring, and Arnór and his best friend Jói from a neighbouring farm crept into the barn to play in the hay, something they were strictly forbidden from doing. They heard rustling and grunting. At first they thought that some large animal had found refuge there, or perhaps a tramp. As they crept nearer they recognized the sounds as human, and not just human, but coming from their parents. Arnór’s father was making love to Jói’s mother, the farmer’s wife, right there in the hay.
The two boys ran away without being seen.
A month later, the boys were playing by a secluded lake some distance from the farm.