Read Online The Polar Bear Killing by Michael Ridpath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Ridpath
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think. ‘Has it rained since Halldór was murdered?’
‘No,’ Vigdís said.
‘Good,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ll go to bed now. I won’t wait for Ólafur – I’d like to delay talking to him if I can. But we’ll meet downstairs in the hotel lobby at five tomorrow morning to take a look at the crime scene. I think I’d like to find out a bit more before I report to him.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
V igdís led the way up the hill towards the henge, her long legs making easy work of the slope. The sun had already been up for a while, and the air was full of the sound of birds busy with whatever birds do that early in the morning.
‘You know they laid this out according to the ‘Völuspá’, the first poem of the Poetic Edda ?’ Magnus said.
Vigdís’s only reply was to let out something between a moan and a grunt.
‘Apparently, there’s a path bearing the name of each of the dwarfs mentioned in the poem. All seventy-two of them.’
‘I bet you know all their names,’ said Vigdís.
‘Not all of them,’ said Magnus.
‘When did you read all this stuff?’
‘When I was a kid at high school.’
‘In America?’ Magnus had moved to Boston from Iceland when he was a kid.
‘Yes.’
They carried on in silence for a few moments.
‘Magnús?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did your friends in America think you were a little weird?’
‘Thanks, Vigdís.’
Although forensics had finished with the scene, police tape still flapped in its own geometric circle within the henge. Vigdís pointed out the spot where Halldór had been shot, and the two rocks down the hill from where it was possible his killer hadstood. While there was a clear view of the gate where Halldór had been found, the rocks were on the other side of the hill from the road, out of sight.
Magnus examined the ground and then made his way down the hill along a half-trodden path, criss-crossing twenty or thirty metres on either side. He paused every time he came to a patch of exposed mud. After ten minutes or so he halted.
‘Vigdís!’
She came over. ‘Found some dwarf footprints?’
Magnus pointed to a patch of mud next to a puddle. ‘Look.’
Vigdís looked. ‘I see tracks.’
‘Look more closely. And count.’
Vigdís looked again. ‘Jesus!’ she said, standing up. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘Do you have any spare spent .22 bullets or casings among the evidence?’ Magnus asked. ‘Doesn’t matter which gun they are from.’
‘We have a few from the range Halldór used back at the station.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Bjartur! Quiet!’
The old farmer came out to meet Magnus and Vigdís, wearing blue overalls and a woolly cap. The sheepdog, the Icelandic breed with a red and white coat and a curled tail, hopped over to them on its three legs.
Vigdís was right: the skin under Egill’s beard was criss-crossed with crevasses and fault lines.
He broke into a smile of welcome when he recognized her. ‘The blue policewoman! Come in, come in! I have a little coffee but no cakes, I’m afraid.’
Before they entered the house, Magnus glanced across the river towards the more prosperous farm on the other side. The view was clear and uninterrupted.
‘So that’s where the polar bear was shot?’ he said.
The farmer frowned and nodded. ‘Yes. It was a cruel day.’
They sat at a table in the cosy kitchen and Egill took off hishat. His ears were massive, flapping straight out from his head, and sprouting white hairs like some kind of polar mammoth. He poured a small quantity of thick gritty liquid from a thermos into two cups. There wasn’t enough for himself.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
Magnus sipped the coffee and tried hard not to grimace.
‘Do you know who murdered Halldór yet?’ Egill asked Vigdís.
‘Not yet,’ said Vigdís.
‘Yes,’ said Magnus.
Vigdís glanced at him quickly. And so did Egill. The bright blue eyes focused on Magnus under bushy eyebrows.
Magnus produced a clear plastic bag, inside which
‘No,’ Vigdís said.
‘Good,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ll go to bed now. I won’t wait for Ólafur – I’d like to delay talking to him if I can. But we’ll meet downstairs in the hotel lobby at five tomorrow morning to take a look at the crime scene. I think I’d like to find out a bit more before I report to him.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
V igdís led the way up the hill towards the henge, her long legs making easy work of the slope. The sun had already been up for a while, and the air was full of the sound of birds busy with whatever birds do that early in the morning.
‘You know they laid this out according to the ‘Völuspá’, the first poem of the Poetic Edda ?’ Magnus said.
Vigdís’s only reply was to let out something between a moan and a grunt.
‘Apparently, there’s a path bearing the name of each of the dwarfs mentioned in the poem. All seventy-two of them.’
‘I bet you know all their names,’ said Vigdís.
‘Not all of them,’ said Magnus.
‘When did you read all this stuff?’
‘When I was a kid at high school.’
‘In America?’ Magnus had moved to Boston from Iceland when he was a kid.
‘Yes.’
They carried on in silence for a few moments.
‘Magnús?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did your friends in America think you were a little weird?’
‘Thanks, Vigdís.’
Although forensics had finished with the scene, police tape still flapped in its own geometric circle within the henge. Vigdís pointed out the spot where Halldór had been shot, and the two rocks down the hill from where it was possible his killer hadstood. While there was a clear view of the gate where Halldór had been found, the rocks were on the other side of the hill from the road, out of sight.
Magnus examined the ground and then made his way down the hill along a half-trodden path, criss-crossing twenty or thirty metres on either side. He paused every time he came to a patch of exposed mud. After ten minutes or so he halted.
‘Vigdís!’
She came over. ‘Found some dwarf footprints?’
Magnus pointed to a patch of mud next to a puddle. ‘Look.’
Vigdís looked. ‘I see tracks.’
‘Look more closely. And count.’
Vigdís looked again. ‘Jesus!’ she said, standing up. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘Do you have any spare spent .22 bullets or casings among the evidence?’ Magnus asked. ‘Doesn’t matter which gun they are from.’
‘We have a few from the range Halldór used back at the station.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Bjartur! Quiet!’
The old farmer came out to meet Magnus and Vigdís, wearing blue overalls and a woolly cap. The sheepdog, the Icelandic breed with a red and white coat and a curled tail, hopped over to them on its three legs.
Vigdís was right: the skin under Egill’s beard was criss-crossed with crevasses and fault lines.
He broke into a smile of welcome when he recognized her. ‘The blue policewoman! Come in, come in! I have a little coffee but no cakes, I’m afraid.’
Before they entered the house, Magnus glanced across the river towards the more prosperous farm on the other side. The view was clear and uninterrupted.
‘So that’s where the polar bear was shot?’ he said.
The farmer frowned and nodded. ‘Yes. It was a cruel day.’
They sat at a table in the cosy kitchen and Egill took off hishat. His ears were massive, flapping straight out from his head, and sprouting white hairs like some kind of polar mammoth. He poured a small quantity of thick gritty liquid from a thermos into two cups. There wasn’t enough for himself.
‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
Magnus sipped the coffee and tried hard not to grimace.
‘Do you know who murdered Halldór yet?’ Egill asked Vigdís.
‘Not yet,’ said Vigdís.
‘Yes,’ said Magnus.
Vigdís glanced at him quickly. And so did Egill. The bright blue eyes focused on Magnus under bushy eyebrows.
Magnus produced a clear plastic bag, inside which
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