Far North - Michael Ridpath [79]
‘But that was a burglar,’ Unnur said.
The three of them sat in silence, thinking it all through.
Unnur shuddered. ‘This is creepy. Three deaths. Over, what, fifty years? From the nineteen thirties to the nineteen eighties.’
‘Is your aunt still alive?’ Ingileif asked.
‘Yes. But I doubt she would tell you anything.’
‘You never know with old people,’ Ingileif said. ‘Sometimes they are happy to talk when the people they are talking about are no longer with us.’
‘It’s important,’ said Magnus.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Unnur. ‘Well, let’s go and see her. She lives just around the corner.’
They left the restaurant and followed a small street that rose behind a fish factory. They came to a tiny house, that looked like an illustration out of a children’s book. It was clad in corrugated iron, painted a bright green with a red roof. A series of elfish knickknacks adorned the windows. Unnur rang the bell. Above the door was a white plaque upon which the year 1903 was carefully painted in black, with purple flowers winding around the numbers.
Unnur’s aunt Hildur was a tiny woman with a crooked back, bright blue eyes and a sharp mind. Her face lit up when she saw her niece. She led them through to an over-heated and over-furnished sitting room, with landscapes on the walls, and little Icelandic flags sprouting up among various elves, seals, trolls and birds on every surface. Unnur was sent to the kitchen to fetch some coffee, there was some brewed.
Hildur picked up some knitting. ‘It’s for my great-grandson,’ she said. ‘He’ll be two next week, and it’s for his birthday, so please don’t mind me if I keep working.’
She held up an almost completed tiny lopi sweater, with an intricate pattern of blue and white crossing chest and shoulders in concentric circles.
‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ingileif with enthusiasm.
The old lady grunted, but she was clearly pleased.
Unnur returned with the coffee. ‘This is Magnús Ragnarsson, aunt. Hallgrímur’s grandson.’
Immediately Hildur’s blue eyes fastened on Magnus, warmth replaced by suspicion.
‘I lived with my grandparents at Bjarnarhöfn for four years when I was a boy,’ Magnus said. ‘It wasn’t a happy time in my life.’
‘I imagine it wasn’t,’ said the old woman.
‘You know my grandfather, I take it?’
‘Of course,’ said Hildur. ‘We were neighbours until I was about twenty. We lived at Hraun. I have tried to avoid him since then.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘No. I don’t. Benni and he used to be great friends when they were little, but I thought he bossed Benni around a bit. They grew apart as they got older.’
‘I don’t like him either,’ said Magnus. The old lady was shocked. Loyalty to grandparents was a given in Icelandic society.
‘Do you remember my great-grandfather?’ Magnus said. ‘Gunnar.’
‘Yes,’ said Hildur.
‘What was he like?’
Hildur didn’t answer straight away. ‘He was a bad man,’ she said eventually.
‘A very bad man,’ Magnus said. ‘He killed your father, didn’t he?’
There was silence in the room, apart from the ticking of a clock, which seemed suddenly very loud. ‘I believe he did,’ said Hildur eventually. ‘I had no idea when I was a child. He used to come over to our farm often after Father disappeared. He helped my mother out around the place, he was a good neighbour. But all the time he knew that he had killed her husband.’ She shuddered.
‘How did you find out? Did Benedikt tell you?’ Magnus fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. He didn’t want to spook her.
Hildur glanced at her audience. For a moment Magnus thought Ingileif might be right, that Hildur might decide that there was no point in keeping the secret any longer. But then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Some secrets go beyond the grave.’
‘Have you read your brother’s story “The Slip”?’ Magnus asked.
The old lady smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘Do you think that your brother might have pushed Gunnar over the edge at Búland’s Head? In revenge for what Gunnar had done to your father?’
‘Let’s just say that on the day Gunnar