The Wanderer, page 12
When an Icelandic archaeologist and his Italian assistant had tracked her down the year before as a local historian and an expert on Gudrid, she decided to go along with their questions and pretend that the wampum and the letter were real. She missed John, and she missed Emilio. The hoax was their legacy, and she thought she might as well enjoy it for them. By that stage she was in her mid eighties. What the hell, she thought, she was going to die soon anyway.
Then the archaeologist had returned with a film crew in tow and she had agreed to be interviewed. She could almost see Emilio’s broad grin as she answered the Icelandic woman’s questions at Sesachacha Pond, hear John’s familiar chuckle.
But then, after the crew had packed up and left the island for Canada and Leif’s Booths, the guilt had set in. Although she had thought the archaeologist arrogant, she had liked Eygló; the hoax, when it was discovered, and it surely would be discovered, would ruin her career. Who knew how many historians would be sent off on wild goose chases?
So Nancy had decided to travel to Iceland to tell them the truth.
CHAPTER 21
OVER VIGDÍS’S OBJECTIONS, Magnus allowed the filming to go ahead on Snaefellsnes, but over Suzy’s objections he refused to allow the crew to leave for Greenland without permission from the police. He had persuaded Einar to give up his computer and phone and he and Vigdís had driven back to Reykjavík with them for analysis.
As they were entering police headquarters, Árni called.
‘What have you got?’
‘Nothing from the phone companies yet,’ said Árni. ‘But I had an idea.’
Magnus’s heart sank a few inches. That was not normally a good sign.
‘I checked with the Hótel Tindastóll. They have free Wi-Fi, but you have to log in every time you use it, and their system monitors usage by room and records every time a guest signs in.’
‘Really? Did you check Eygló?’
‘I did. She logged into the system at eight-oh-two and again at ten-oh-eight. And then once again at eleven-forty-one.’
‘So that pretty much means she must have been in her room when she says she was?’
‘She didn’t have time to drive to Glaumbaer, kill Carlotta and return.’
‘What about Einar?’
‘Einar logged on at seven-fifty-nine and then again at eleventwelve.’
‘When he came back from the church square. That’s consistent with his story too. And the others?’
‘Suzy, Tom and Ajay all logged on around eight, right after they had checked in. But none of them were on Wi-Fi afterwards.’
‘OK, Árni. Good work. Any news on Ajay from Britain?’
‘That’s going to take a while,’ Ajay said.
There was something in Ajay’s voice that Magnus recognized of old. It was the sound of Árni screwing up.
‘Árni?’
Árni sighed. ‘The British cop promised he would look, but he did point out that Ajay was a Hindu name, if that was any help.’
‘So he’s unlikely to be a jihadi hitman, then?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Ajay. ‘But there is no reason why there shouldn’t be a Hindu hitman, is there?’
Magnus decided to put Árni out of his misery, something he should have done earlier. ‘Call the guy back and tell him we are withdrawing the inquiry. There is no point in wasting his time. It’s just about possible that Carlotta was murdered by a paid killer, but Ajay does not fit that profile and frankly neither does the method. Professional killers don’t rely on finding pickaxes lying about.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’ Árni sounded chastened.
‘Good work on the hotel Wi-Fi, though, Árni.’
Magnus had reached his desk as he hung up. ‘Did you get that?’ he said to Vigdís who had been listening to his half of the conversation.
‘I think so. Eygló was logged on to the hotel’s Wi-Fi when Carlotta was killed.’
‘Looks like it.’
Vigdís made no attempt to hide her disappointment.
There was a note prominently displayed on Magnus’s desk telling him to report to Thelma as soon as he arrived. He grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for her office. She was deep in conversation with Snorri, the National Police Commissioner. The conversation stopped abruptly as Magnus appeared.
‘I’ll come back,’ Magnus said.
The Commissioner got up from his chair and gave Magnus a friendly grin. ‘No, no, I was just leaving. Go ahead, Magnús.’
Magnus couldn’t help wondering what they had been discussing. He hoped it had nothing to do with him.
‘Any progress?’ Thelma asked when the senior officer had left the room.
‘Some,’ said Magnus. ‘We’ve established that Einar Thorsteinsson and Carlotta Mondini carried on a relationship several years ago. And she was unofficially helping him research the television documentary they were filming at Glaumbaer.’
‘Is there a connection between the documentary and her death?’
‘Not sure yet. There are still some leads to chase up.’
‘Is Einar a suspect?’
‘He has a strong alibi for when Carlotta was killed. But he keeps on hiding things from us. I’m not convinced that he is telling us the whole truth.’
‘What about Eygló, the presenter?’
‘She has been lying to us too, probably covering for him. But she also has an alibi for the time of death: she was logged on to the hotel Wi-Fi.’
Thelma nodded. ‘Because I have had Ingólfur Sveinsson on the phone.’ Ingólfur was the Minister of Justice, Magnus knew. ‘Margrét, the Minister of Culture, has told him how important this documentary will be for Iceland; they expect it to be shown all over the world. She says it is vital that Einar and Eygló go to Greenland to film it before the weather turns bad.’
Magnus was impressed at how quickly someone had been working. He thought it unlikely it was Einar – he had seemed too distracted. Probably Suzy Henshaw or Eygló or both of them together. That might have explained the Commissioner’s presence in Thelma’s office.
‘But surely if they are suspects in a murder investigation, that must take precedence?’
‘That’s what I told the minister, and that’s what he says he told Margrét Sveinsdóttir. And if you need to keep them in the country, I’ll make sure you can – I’ll get the Commissioner involved if necessary.’
‘But?’
‘If it turns out that neither of them is a real suspect, it will be harder to defend the decision not to let him go.’
‘I see. Sveinsson? Sveinsdóttir?’
Thelma smiled. ‘Yes, the Minister of Justice is the Minister of Culture’s younger brother.’
‘That figures.’ And Magnus had thought Boston’s city politics was incestuous.
‘Have you ever been to Greenland, Magnús?’
‘No.’
‘Well, the only direct flights from there are to Reykjavík and Copenhagen, so it will be difficult for Einar to skip town. Maybe you can work something out informally with the Greenlandic and Danish police to keep an eye out for him. We have good contacts.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So?’
Magnus thought a moment. Einar was always the more likely suspect than Eygló, and he was pretty sure now that Einar hadn’t killed Carlotta. Although he wouldn’t be surprised if Einar still hadn’t told them everything, the man wasn’t about to say anything more now. The police would have to search elsewhere for answers.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll let them go to Greenland.’
But as he left Thelma’s office, he was not looking forward to telling Vigdís.
CHAPTER 22
‘WHAT EXACTLY IS that?’ said Professor Beccari, eyeing Eygló’s dessert.
‘Skyr. It’s made from milk – it looks and tastes a bit like yoghurt. Try it. It’s good, especially with berries.’ Eygló picked up a spare spoon from the place setting next to her, and offered it to the Italian.
He recoiled. ‘I’ve been warned about your Icelandic delicacies. Rotten shark. Rams’ testicles.’
‘Don’t worry. The testicles taste much better when they are mushed up like this and added to the skyr.’
‘There are rams’ testicles in that?’
Eygló nodded. ‘Only a teaspoon or so. Try it. Be brave.’
The challenge to the professor’s courage was too much for him to resist, so he took the spoon and tasted the skyr.
‘That’s actually not too bad. A bit bitter.’
‘You can add sugar and cream if you want.’
‘It doesn’t really have rams’ testicles in it?’ said Beccari.
Eygló grinned. ‘No. Or at least I don’t think so.’
‘Einar seems distracted,’ said Beccari, nodding at an empty plate. Einar and the others had just left the table, leaving Eygló and Beccari, and Ajay by himself a few places away.
They were having an early lunch in the hotel before filming at Ingjaldshóll, a few kilometres away, in the afternoon. The atmosphere had been tense. The crew knew that the police’s questioning was focused on Einar, but with the exception of Suzy, who had been encouraging, they had avoided asking him about it.
He had looked miserable. As well he should, thought Eygló. She was still confident that he had nothing to do with Carlotta’s death, but she thought he had no one to blame but himself for being implicated. And why had he thought it a good idea to bother her the night before? He had been genuinely distraught and her soft heart had gone out to him. He had insisted he just wanted comfort from her; she had insisted he sleep with his underpants on. But he should never have knocked on her door and she should never have let him in.
But she would have to wait for a good opportunity to talk to him in private. At least the others did not yet realize that she herself was now a suspect.
Damn Einar! It was all his fault.
‘Is he a suspect for the murder, do you think?’ Beccari asked.
‘He shouldn’t be, unless the police are complete morons,’ said Eygló. ‘He was with me and Suzy for most of the evening, and I saw him later on in the street.’
‘So Carlotta was killed by a stranger?’ Beccari asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Eygló. ‘I presume so. We don’t get many murders here in Iceland, especially not of tourists.’ She finished her skyr. ‘Don’t worry. The police will find whoever it is. They’ll have to – no one wants our tourists murdered: they are far too important to our economy.’ She was trying hard to sound confident and she thought she was succeeding.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘That would be nice,’ said Eygló.
The professor signalled to the waitress. He was wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater and his pink scarf even indoors; Eygló was wearing a T-shirt. As so often in the last couple of years, she marvelled at how she was rubbing shoulders with such an august historian, almost as an equal. She was pleased to see that he was lingering. Certain middle-aged men liked her company. She was willing to take advantage of that, especially since none of the others were around.
Besides, she had something she needed to ask him, and she needed to warm him up first.
Start with flattery. ‘I read Thought, Light and New Worlds,’ she said. ‘I thought it was absolutely brilliant.’ And actually she had. Both read it and admired it. Beccari had achieved the historian’s holy grail of putting across ideas that were both original and complex in an entertaining way. The sixteenth century wasn’t her period, but there had been so many glowing reviews in the press that she had decided to ask for the book for Christmas two years before. Her mother had given it to her, and she had devoured it.
‘I’m glad,’ said the professor, with a total lack of surprise or even pleasure at the praise. Eygló found the arrogance a little offputting, but he probably had earned it more than Einar.
‘You know you are a very good TV presenter,’ said Beccari. ‘You really make the subject come alive. And you have a certain Nordic charm that gives your words a real power.’
Eygló blushed at the compliment. She didn’t know whether he was simply returning her flattery, whether he was hitting on her, or whether he believed what he said to be true. She decided to believe the latter.
Professor Beccari was one of the most renowned historians in the world. His words meant something. Her former colleagues back at York or the University of Iceland might think she was a lightweight, but who were they when compared to Professor Marco Beccari?
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You must have done loads of television stuff yourself?’
‘Not really,’ said Beccari. ‘I usually avoid it. I used to suffer from that common suspicion among we academics toward popularizing history. Dumbing it down. Distorting the truth to make it entertaining rather than accurate. Slaughtering nuance.’
Eygló winced inwardly. She noted how the ‘we academics’ excluded her. She wanted to argue, to explain that her enthusiasm for history was perfectly genuine, and there was nothing wrong in sharing it. But she kept her cool.
‘ Used to suffer?’ she said. ‘You have changed your mind?’
‘I think perhaps I have,’ said Beccari. ‘Sometimes we professional historians forget what drove us to the subject in the first place: the love of the past, the pleasure of imagining what life was like in another century, the vicarious excitement of experiencing a battle or a war or a great international crisis. Or the discovery of Vinland.’
Eygló smiled.
‘So I should play my part in encouraging future historians,’ Beccari went on. ‘As long as I am not misrepresenting the truth, or oversimplifying.’
‘I hope you don’t think we are oversimplifying?’ said Eygló.
‘No,’ said Beccari. But he hesitated. ‘A little perhaps. But I can see it is unavoidable and I need to remind myself of that.’
That was accurate enough, thought Eygló.
‘I am looking forward to doing the scenes in Rome,’ she said. ‘With the Columbus letter. I can’t wait until it is right there in front of us. Will I be able to pick it up?’
‘Oh, I am sure you will. With gloves, of course.’
‘How do you feel when you touch something actually written by Columbus?’
Beccari laughed. ‘Oh, I have touched so many things written by all kinds of famous people from the past. You get used to it. But Carlotta Mondini was very perceptive. This particular letter is something special.’
‘People have been trying to figure out how far south the Vikings got for years. And now we know the answer.’
‘It’s much more than that,’ said Beccari. ‘It will change the whole way we look at Columbus and the discovery of America.’ His voice warmed. ‘For a couple of decades now, Columbus’s position has been precarious. For centuries he has been seen as the man who discovered America. The Founding Fathers venerated him; the United States is full of places called Columbia, including the capital. There is even a country named after him. But he was looking for China. The Norsemen discovered America first, if not the Irish. And when he got to the New World, he was pretty brutal to the people he found there.
‘Now, when I . . .’ Beccari hesitated and glanced at Eygló. ‘When we announce to the world that Columbus knew all about America before he got there because the Icelanders told him, I believe it will tip him over the edge.’ Beccari chuckled. ‘Some people won’t like that – my old compatriots back in Italy, for instance.’
This was making Eygló nervous. She was very happy to bring her heroine Gudrid to the attention of the wider world. Trashing one of the most famous men in history was a different matter.
‘I had some fruitful conversations with my publishers in New York before I flew out here,’ Beccari said, chuckling again. ‘Very fruitful. I have an idea for a book that is going to shake Columbine studies to its very core.’
Eygló was struck with a flash of jealousy. She and Suzy had a deal with a small British publisher to produce a slim volume of photographs and text about Gudrid to go with the series. And now this professor was going to make ‘very fruitful’ amounts of money from their idea!
But then he was the brilliant world-renowned historian and she wasn’t.
Their discussion reminded Eygló forcefully of the question she needed to ask him. She wasn’t sure how to ask it indirectly; so she asked it straight. ‘Could it be a fake?’
Beccari’s eyes fixed on her. ‘Why do you ask that?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest . . .’
Beccari grimaced in a complicated Italian expression that seemed to convey doubt and agreement at the same time. ‘No, it’s a perfectly fair question. I was suspicious at first, naturally, but it is genuine, I am quite sure of that. I will stake my reputation on it – I have staked my reputation on it.’
And it was quite some reputation. Which was fortunate, because the letter pointed to the authenticity of the wampum; they each supported the other. ‘Good,’ she said.
‘You sound relieved?’ said Beccari, a glimmer of suspicion returning to his eyes.
‘Oh, no,’ said Eygló. ‘It’s not that at all.’
‘Because I am having to take the wampum find on trust,’ said Beccari. ‘Are you certain about it?’
‘Einar is,’ said Eygló. ‘And he is one of the best archaeologists in Iceland.’
‘But you?’ Beccari’s thick eyebrows were arched under his shining forehead.
‘Yes, yes of course I am,’ said Eygló. ‘But it is comforting to hear an expert like you confirm the letter is real.’
Beccari still looked troubled. ‘Well, I hope Einar knows what he is about.’
‘Oh, he does, he does. He has total confidence in the wampum. He understands objects – he is not so good with paper. Which is why your opinion is so important to us.
‘Ah, here is Suzy,’ said Eygló with some relief as she saw the producer approaching them.
‘Eygló? Marco?’ Suzy said. ‘We are leaving in ten minutes.’
Eygló had wanted to check if there was a seed of doubt in Beccari’s mind about the Columbus letter. Well, there wasn’t. Or there hadn’t been – Eygló was a little concerned she had just planted one. Einar would be furious if he found out.
