him. ‘It would have been cool to actually see a polar bear. And to stop those bastards shooting it.’
‘Here it is,’ said the Icelander, whose name was Alex. ‘The Arctic Henge.’
On the crest of the hill above them stood a half-built giant stone circle, designed in the manner of Stonehenge, with four tall stone gates at each point of the compass. The low sun painted geometric shadows down the eastern slope of the hill.
‘Cool,’ said Martin again. It was his favourite English word. ‘You say it acts like some kind of sundial?’
‘Apparently.’
They walked around the site, trying to figure out what it all meant. Alex had brought with him a drawing of what the finished henge would look like. The layout was based on an ancient Icelandic poem, but he was confused about what signified what, and Martin’s questions were just confusing him more.
‘Well, let’s ask that guy,’ Martin said.
‘What guy?’
Martin pointed to a black-clad leg sticking out from behind one of the stone pillars of a gate.
As the two men approached the gate, more of the figure came into view.
‘ Mein Gott! ’
It was a man. He was wearing a black police uniform. He was slumped against the pillar. And where his right eye should have been was a bloody mess.
CHAPTER TWO
I t was a long journey from Reykjavík to Raufarhöfn and Detective Vigdís Audardóttir had decided to drive the whole way, taking the northern route via Akureyri and Húsavík. She had left before breakfast and it was now mid-afternoon. Raufarhöfn was in the far north-east of the country, and the last stretch of road there hugged the north coast to a point a kilometre south of the Arctic Circle. To her left the sea was a ruffled greyish blue; to her right the land was a ruffled brownish green. Farms were few and far between. It was a fine day; the sun shone down a weak yellow on the eerie remoteness of the Melrakkaslétta.
She couldn’t see any foxes, but the seashore and the lakes were teeming with bird life of all shapes and sizes. The area was an important hub in the transatlantic aerial migration network.
She felt alone. She felt good.
When Inspector Baldur, the head of the Violent Crimes Unit, had asked for volunteers to travel to Raufarhöfn to help out with a murder investigation, she had jumped at the chance to get out of Reykjavík. For once she could afford to leave her alcoholic mother for a couple of weeks. Vigdís knew she should be visiting her, but she wanted to get away from the constant reminder that she had failed in keeping her mother off the booze, and the growing realization that she would always fail: that whatever rehab programmes she went on, however much money Vigdís spent, her mother Audur would always come back to the drink.
At least her mother was somewhere safe now. Somewhere shecouldn’t get hold of a drink. Somewhere where if she hit someone, it was someone else’s problem.
Vigdís’s mother was in prison.
She had struck one of her boyfriends too hard over the head with a candlestick during a drunken fight. The boyfriend had ended up unconscious and in hospital, and yes he did want to press charges. So Audur was spending two months in prison.
But Vigdís wasn’t just running away from the unsolvable problem of her mother. She was also running away from her boss, Sergeant Magnús Ragnarsson.
She turned a corner around a headland and Raufarhöfn came into sight. A classic Icelandic church with white walls and a red metal roof stood by the sheltered harbour, behind which disused fish factories and a ribbon of houses ran along the main road. Raufarhöfn had been a boom town in the 1960s when herring had been harvested from the surrounding seas, but with the disappearance of the herring the town had shrunk, leaving abandoned fish-processing plants and houses, and an oversized graveyard of white dots behind a white wooden fence on a hillside overlooking the town. The Arctic Henge guarded the town from its little citadel
‘Here it is,’ said the Icelander, whose name was Alex. ‘The Arctic Henge.’
On the crest of the hill above them stood a half-built giant stone circle, designed in the manner of Stonehenge, with four tall stone gates at each point of the compass. The low sun painted geometric shadows down the eastern slope of the hill.
‘Cool,’ said Martin again. It was his favourite English word. ‘You say it acts like some kind of sundial?’
‘Apparently.’
They walked around the site, trying to figure out what it all meant. Alex had brought with him a drawing of what the finished henge would look like. The layout was based on an ancient Icelandic poem, but he was confused about what signified what, and Martin’s questions were just confusing him more.
‘Well, let’s ask that guy,’ Martin said.
‘What guy?’
Martin pointed to a black-clad leg sticking out from behind one of the stone pillars of a gate.
As the two men approached the gate, more of the figure came into view.
‘ Mein Gott! ’
It was a man. He was wearing a black police uniform. He was slumped against the pillar. And where his right eye should have been was a bloody mess.
CHAPTER TWO
I t was a long journey from Reykjavík to Raufarhöfn and Detective Vigdís Audardóttir had decided to drive the whole way, taking the northern route via Akureyri and Húsavík. She had left before breakfast and it was now mid-afternoon. Raufarhöfn was in the far north-east of the country, and the last stretch of road there hugged the north coast to a point a kilometre south of the Arctic Circle. To her left the sea was a ruffled greyish blue; to her right the land was a ruffled brownish green. Farms were few and far between. It was a fine day; the sun shone down a weak yellow on the eerie remoteness of the Melrakkaslétta.
She couldn’t see any foxes, but the seashore and the lakes were teeming with bird life of all shapes and sizes. The area was an important hub in the transatlantic aerial migration network.
She felt alone. She felt good.
When Inspector Baldur, the head of the Violent Crimes Unit, had asked for volunteers to travel to Raufarhöfn to help out with a murder investigation, she had jumped at the chance to get out of Reykjavík. For once she could afford to leave her alcoholic mother for a couple of weeks. Vigdís knew she should be visiting her, but she wanted to get away from the constant reminder that she had failed in keeping her mother off the booze, and the growing realization that she would always fail: that whatever rehab programmes she went on, however much money Vigdís spent, her mother Audur would always come back to the drink.
At least her mother was somewhere safe now. Somewhere shecouldn’t get hold of a drink. Somewhere where if she hit someone, it was someone else’s problem.
Vigdís’s mother was in prison.
She had struck one of her boyfriends too hard over the head with a candlestick during a drunken fight. The boyfriend had ended up unconscious and in hospital, and yes he did want to press charges. So Audur was spending two months in prison.
But Vigdís wasn’t just running away from the unsolvable problem of her mother. She was also running away from her boss, Sergeant Magnús Ragnarsson.
She turned a corner around a headland and Raufarhöfn came into sight. A classic Icelandic church with white walls and a red metal roof stood by the sheltered harbour, behind which disused fish factories and a ribbon of houses ran along the main road. Raufarhöfn had been a boom town in the 1960s when herring had been harvested from the surrounding seas, but with the disappearance of the herring the town had shrunk, leaving abandoned fish-processing plants and houses, and an oversized graveyard of white dots behind a white wooden fence on a hillside overlooking the town. The Arctic Henge guarded the town from its little citadel
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