The Polar Bear Killing (5 page)

The soft evening light was ruffled by a stiff breeze from the west. Vigdís didn’t mind; she wanted fresh air and lots of it. She struck out past the church up a path to the cliff at the mouth of the harbour. A small orange lighthouse squatted on its summit – she decided to head for that.

She was frustrated at Ólafur and his mishandling of the
investigation. Of course the two animal-rights activists should be suspects, but not at the expense of anyone else. She sometimes thought that the older-school Icelandic policemen viewed a criminal investigation as an exercise in gathering information to confirm a known theory. It was true that most Icelandic crime was of a straightforward nature: a drunken man holding a knife next to a body, threatening to stab anyone who came near him – not hard to solve that. But she and Magnus had been involved in a number of difficult cases where the obvious solution had proven to be the wrong one.

Vigdís was pretty sure this was one of those.

Magnus would sort Ólafur out. It was ironic: having gone all the way to Raufarhöfn to escape her boss, now she almost wished he was here.

‘Hey!’

She turned to see a figure coming down the hillside from the graveyard. Martin Fiedler.

‘Vigdís! Your name is Vigdís, isn’t it?’

The man was speaking in English.

‘Hi,’ she said. And then: ‘I do not speak English.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Martin Fiedler. ‘Every Icelander speaks English.’

‘Not me,’ said Vigdís.

He approached her. ‘OK.
Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
’

‘Nein.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the German said in English. ‘Can I walk with you?’

Despite professing not to speak English, Vigdís in fact understood quite a lot of the language. As Martin had said, it was impossible not to pick up some English living in Iceland. As a girl she had become so sick of people assuming that she was not Icelandic and speaking English to her that she resolved not to learn the language. She knew it was stubborn. But then everyone was always telling her she was stubborn.

She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Fiedler. No walk together. I policeman. You…’

‘Criminal?’ said the German. ‘I’m not a criminal. And please call me Martin.’

‘Criminal Martin,’ said Vigdís.

Martin laughed. He had a friendly smile and very warm brown eyes.

‘Look, Vigdís, if I don’t speak Icelandic and you don’t speak English, then how can there be a problem? Tell me.’

Vigdís hesitated.

‘If you don’t mind me walking with you, just say: “I don’t understand.”’

Despite herself, Vigdís smiled. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, and turned away from Martin along the track.

Within a moment, he was at her side.

‘Well, I need to talk to someone,’ said Martin. ‘That Alex guy is an idiot. I think he genuinely believes it was good the policeman was shot. The farmhouse we were staying in has thrown us out – they believe we killed the cop – so now I have moved into the hotel. So I’ll talk to you, right?’

Vigdís didn’t answer.

‘Right?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Vigdís.

‘Cool,’ said Martin. ‘Then let me tell you all about myself.’

And he did. He spoke slowly and clearly, pausing to choose simple sentence constructions that Vigdís would understand. And she did understand nearly all of it.

He spoke of his childhood, how he had always been fond of animals and how as he learned about climate change and extinction he had become angry. His father was a senior executive for a power company who had become disillusioned with the efforts of his employer to talk about carbon emissions without actually doing anything about them. Martin’s father was too old or scared or well entrenched to do anything either, but he encouraged his son.

Then he had died and left Martin a bit of money. After university Martin had used it to fund his protests against climate change and, increasingly, against animal cruelty either in the lab or the hunting field.

Vigdís listened, caught up in Martin’s enthusiasm.

‘Now I am going to tell you about my girlfriends,’ he said.

‘Why?’ said Vigdís in English.

‘Don’t spoil it,’ said Martin. ‘You don’t understand me, remember. I’m not going to tell you my secrets if you can understand them.’

‘OK,’ said Vigdís. ‘I don’t understand.’ They had reached the lighthouse. There was a stunning view of the waterlogged Melrakkaslétta plain, of the town behind them and of the Arctic Ocean stretching north towards the icecap. The invisible Arctic Circle was only a few hundred metres away.

‘It’s cold up here in the wind,’ said Vigdís in Icelandic. ‘Let’s go down there.’ She pointed to a spot on the lee side of the headland, just above the cliff face.

‘OK,’ said Martin, understanding.

They found a patch of soft dry grass and sat down. They were facing east, and the sun behind them was throwing golden trails on to the sea. Far below, driftwood from Siberia bumped up against the black pebble shoreline. Terns wheeled beneath them, making their familiar
‘kría!’
call.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Martin.

Vigdís nodded. She hesitated and then pulled out her vodka bottle and offered him some. Martin raised his eyebrows and took a swig. He passed the bottle back to Vigdís.

‘Now, Petra. Let me tell you about Petra.’

Petra was a beautiful raven-haired goddess that had somehow been dropped down from the heavens into Martin’s high school. He told of his various stratagems to woo her, all of which failed. He was funny. Even in English he was funny.

As the sun sank lower, Vigdís began to feel colder, but she didn’t care. The sea was beautiful. The light was beautiful. The lunatic German’s patter was warm and comforting. The vodka tasted good. She was having a good time.

‘Why do I like you, Vigdís?’ he said. ‘I mean, all you have said to me is “I don’t understand” and “Are you a murderer?”.’

‘That does not work?’ said Vigdís slowly in English. ‘I thought
that was a good speech. Perhaps that is why I do not have lots of boyfriends.’

‘Because you accuse them of being murderers? No, that’s not a good line.’

‘It works with you, I think.’ Although Vigdís scarcely ever spoke English, it turned out that she could do it better than she expected.

‘Yes. That’s true,’ said Martin.

‘Do you like me because I am black?’ said Vigdís. She found herself looking at Martin with suspicion. The answer was important.

‘Because you are black? Why?’

‘I do not know.’ She paused, searching for the English word. ‘Curiosity?’

‘I am curious about you. But not because you are black.’

‘You are curious about me? About what?’

‘I suppose I am curious about what a nice girl like you is doing in a dump like this, working for a moron like that detective inspector.’

‘Moron?’

‘Idiot.’

‘Ah.’ Vigdís paused. Why not answer the question? ‘I like order. I like things to be done just so. I do not like it when some people just take everything and leave other people with nothing. I feel I am protecting Icelandic society. And that is good.’ She looked at Martin. ‘Does that sound stupid?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But your boss
is
a moron.’

Vigdís laughed. ‘My boss is a moron,’ she agreed. She shivered.

Slowly Martin put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her towards him. She could feel the warmth of his body through his coat. She felt like a teenager sneaking out of one of those summer village dances. It was nice. She had another pull of vodka and passed it to Martin.

He kissed her.

It was a long kiss. A kiss of exploration. A warm kiss.

She heard the rattle of stones behind and above her. About thirty metres away she saw the tall, lean and sweaty figure of Inspector Ólafur staring down at them.

‘Oh shit!’ Vigdís said in Icelandic.

‘Scheisse!’
said Martin.

Vigdís put her head in her hands.

‘I take it this is not good,’ said Martin, moving away from her. Vigdís didn’t answer. When she looked up, Ólafur had set off back to town.

‘This is not good,’ said Vigdís. ‘I am sorry, Martin. I am just as stupid as Ólafur. More stupid. I must go.’

She set off down the hillside, clutching her bottle of vodka. She went straight up to her hotel room, finished the bottle and tried to get to sleep. It took her a long time.

Then she was wakened by a gentle knock.

‘Who is it?’ she called. No answer, just another knock.

Wearing pants and a T-shirt, she opened the door a crack, fearing that it would be Ólafur deciding the middle of the night was the right time to reprimand her.

But it wasn’t Ólafur.

For a moment she was going to send him away. But then she thought, screw it. If she was in deep trouble, she may as well enjoy it while she had the chance. She smiled.

‘Come in, Martin.’

V
igdís made sure she was at Ólafur’s morning meeting to discuss the case in plenty of time. He glared at her as he arrived. The meeting was inconclusive. There was no forensic evidence linking Alex or Martin to the shooting – none whatsoever. They hadn’t found a gun that the two men could conceivably have used. The autopsy on Halldór carried out in Reykjavík had retrieved the bullet in his skull, as Edda had guessed. It was a .22 calibre. That was good news: if they found a rifle that they suspected may have shot him, ballistics analysis should confirm it.

The forensics team had copied the hard disk from the two tourists’ laptops and transmitted the downloaded information to the lab in Reykjavík for analysis. The previous afternoon Vigdís had told Edda to make sure the technicians checked on Martin’s online activities between three and six o’clock on the day of the murder. As always it was frustrating that she couldn’t just open up the laptop to check for herself, but it was against protocols, and unless everything was done strictly according to those protocols, any evidence they did find could be thrown out in court.

After the meeting, Ólafur went outside to talk to the press. The polar bear killing made a good news story not just in Iceland but also overseas, and Ólafur did not enjoy admitting that he had released the two suspects.

Once the conference was over, he grabbed Vigdís.

‘Outside. Now.’

They walked around the side of the police station to a patch
of concrete overlooking the harbour at the back. No one but the seabirds could see them.

‘What were you doing, Vigdís?’

‘I’m sorry, Ólafur,’ Vigdís mumbled.

‘How long has this been going on for? How long have you known him?’

‘I met him yesterday in the police station.’

‘And when did you first kiss him?’

‘Just then. You saw me.’

Ólafur’s anger seemed to have left him. He seemed genuinely perplexed.

‘Why? Why, Vigdís? I don’t understand. You must know that snogging suspects is not professional behaviour?’

‘I know,’ said Vigdís.

Suddenly the consequence of what she had done hit her. Somehow, out in the wilderness, away from her mother and the police station and her day-to-day life, she had thought that her actions would not matter in the real world of Reykjavík policing. But it would. She would be disciplined. She may end up back in uniform, or even losing her job entirely.

But she wouldn’t beg.

‘I will have to report this,’ Ólafur said.

‘I understand,’ said Vigdís.

‘I am going to get Reykjavík to send a replacement out for you. In the meantime, I want you to stay clear of Martin Fiedler. In fact, you are off the case. As soon as your replacement arrives, you go back to Reykjavík.’

Magnus drove up to the University of Iceland campus on the hill overlooking Reykjavík City Airport. He was curious about Vigdís’s case, and eager to help her. He would love it if it was her who made the breakthrough and not Baldur’s old buddy Ólafur.

He found the building that housed the politics department and tracked down the office of Dr Árndís Húbertsdóttir, Gudrún’s tutor, a friendly woman in her forties. With the students away, she wasn’t teaching, and she was happy to talk to Magnus.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Gudrún’s father,’ she said. ‘I knew her mother had died several years ago. Poor girl.’

‘Do you know her well?’

‘I take an interest in my students, so I know her a little, but you can never really have much of an idea about their life outside the university. She is a good student, with a real interest in politics.’

‘As an academic subject, or as an activist?’ Magnus asked.

‘Both, really. She is politically engaged. Most of the students are here, and most of them to the left.’

A question struck Magnus. ‘Is she interested in animal rights, do you know?’

‘Yes, she is,’ said Dr Árndís. ‘Very much so. Save the whales. Stop experimenting on rats…’

‘And stop shooting polar bears the moment they arrive in Iceland?’

‘And that, too. In fact, I’m sure that’s why she left a couple of days before the end of term. She asked my permission. She said her father was ill. I believed her; she’s an honest girl, or at least I thought she was. But then I saw that a polar bear had been shot in her home town, and that the mother may be loose in the area, and I thought: I bet she has gone home to try to find it. By that time it was too late to stop her.’

‘Did you know it was her father who had shot the polar bear?’

‘I knew it was a policeman, but I didn’t notice the name. If I had I might have made the connection, but I didn’t know what her father did, just that he was very ill. Supposedly. But then when the news came out that he had been murdered, I understood everything.’

‘He wasn’t ill at all,’ said Magnus.

‘Obviously not.’

‘Has Gudrún been in touch?’

‘Yes. She says that with what has happened, she won’t be coming back to university next year. I told her not to rush to a decision; she has the whole summer. I’m sure she would be better here in Reykjavík than stuck in Raufarhöfn by herself. I read she has a brother?’

‘Yes. Sveinn. She didn’t mention him?’

‘No. I hope they can stick together. Support each other.’

‘You didn’t ask her why she lied to you?’