Fall Hard (19 page)

He shook his head. “A drug overdose. I think it was an accident. I don’t think she meant to die. But it wasn’t easy to tell.” He was silent for a couple of beats. “She was in bed, as if she was asleep. By the time I realised, she was already cold.”

Christ. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen. So not so young.”

“Not so bloody old, either. I was a couple of years older when my parents died, and it still hit me like an avalanche.” I’d coped by throwing myself into my studies, Gretchen by becoming a surrogate mother to anyone who’d let her, including me. “What happened to you then?”

“I had foster parents for a while. They didn’t like me much. I wasn’t very well-behaved.”

“That’s understandable.” I swished at some tall grass with the trekking pole, grimly pleased to see heads fall.

“But not nice to live with, I think.”

“Do you still have contact with them?”

“No. Not for years now.”

I pulled him in closer to me, and we shared a quick kiss. Giggles and a poorly executed wolf-whistle alerted us to the presence of a couple of teenage girls, and heat rose in my face as we separated. I didn’t let go of his arm, though, and Viggo didn’t try to get away either.

As we walked on, Loki paused to put one of the trees to traditional doggy use. “Makes you wonder how dogs coped in the rest of Iceland, before lampposts were invented,” I said idly. “Did they all cross their legs?”

“No, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to stand still for too long.”

I laughed. “Loki, you wouldn’t pee on my leg, would you? Hump it, maybe, I can cope with that…”

Viggo pulled me in tight. “No. Only I’m allowed to hump you. Loki can find his own lover.”

Lover. Was that what we were to each other? I looked at Viggo’s face, relaxed and happy.

Yes, I thought, warmth spreading right through me. Lovers.

Viggo had to work again Saturday evening, so we took a trip to the local supermarket for some frozen pizza and had an early meal together in front of the TV. We’d agreed I’d go with him to Mistilteinn, stay for an hour or so and then pick up my car and drive home. The thought of another night in Viggo’s bed was tempting, but I didn’t want to come on too heavy.

The blonde, lip-pierced barmaid—Sigrun, I learned—greeted us with a broad smile and a whispered comment to Viggo I decided it was probably just as well I didn’t catch. Later, while he worked, she came to talk to me.

“Work going okay?” she asked.

I nodded, unsure what to say. Did she know what I did, or was this just casual politeness? “Sorry if it seems like I’m being unfriendly. I mean, if we knew each other before.” Did I have to go through the whole story again?

She shrugged, her bony shoulders looking elfin in her loose tank top. “That’s okay. I didn’t really know you back then.” She grinned suddenly. “You make him happy now. I like it.”

“I…didn’t before?” I put down my coffee cup, spilling a little into the saucer.

She laughed. “Before? No. You didn’t make him happy before.” She moved away without telling me what the joke was.

As I stared after her, Viggo caught my eye. The warmth of his smile flooded through me, and some inner tension eased. I was just spooking at shadows, that was all.

I was just finishing up my coffee when a dark, bitter voice spoke in my ear.

“So, you lived, then?”

I wheeled in shock. A small woman I guessed must be in her mid-twenties, sharp-featured yet pretty and with a mass of dark curls, was glaring at me.

“Do I know you?” I blurted out, her aggression throwing me off balance. What the hell had I done to her? She looked vaguely familiar, but I had no idea who she was.

Her dark-lined eyes narrowed even more. She had a companion, a sandy-haired young man who was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and looking anywhere but at me. “Yes, Paul Ansell, you know me. Katrin Baldursdottir. Remember?”

“No.” My voice was rough.

Her expression altered. It didn’t exactly soften, but the crease in the centre of her forehead disappeared as her eyebrows went up. “I worked with Sven. We met several times.” Her voice turned impatient. “You remember Sven, yes?”

“I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Since the accident, I haven’t been able to remember anything.” I hated admitting my weakness to someone so clearly hostile.

I needn’t have worried. She was visibly skeptical. “But you know your own name.”

“Yes. It’s just things from Iceland I’ve forgotten. From my time here before, I mean.”

“That’s neat.” Her tone was flat.

My temper rose. “That’s an odd thing to say. And not exactly sympathetic. Let me guess, we didn’t get on very well?”

She snorted. “Oh, we got on fine at the start. I thought you were a nice guy.”

“What did I do?” I asked helplessly.

She startled at that; then her eyes narrowed once more. “You really want me to tell you? Fine. You were bad for him. You let him—you
encouraged
him to get lost in the past. And then you cheated on him.”

I felt cold. “How do you know that?”

“Because he told me, of course. I told him he should leave you, but he loved you. He
loved
you,” she repeated, her face jutting forward and her lips tightened in an almost-snarl. “He used to say you were his soul mate, his other self, did you know that? And all the time, you treated him like dirt. You should have stayed in England. Or died. I don’t care which.” She jerked her head at her companion and took his arm. “Come on, we’ll go somewhere else. I don’t like this place anymore.”

I stared after them as she left.

“Trouble?” Viggo asked softly. I hadn’t noticed him come over.

“No. Maybe. Did you know her?”

He shrugged. “She’s been here before a few times, I think.”

“But she’s never talked to you?”

“Only to buy drinks. Is she a friend?”

“No. She was a friend of Sven’s.” I looked at him and then, unnerved, away again. “I’d better go.”

He put a hand on my arm. “Paul. Are you all right?”

I nodded, not quite meeting his gaze. “I’m fine. Just…things to do. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, but I felt him looking at me as I limped out of the bar.

I drove back to my flat. It seemed sterile and cold after the bustle of Mistilteinn and the cheerful clutter of Viggo’s place.

It was only as I was brushing my teeth that I remembered where I’d seen Katrin before. It had been at the Pride festival. She’d been the woman talking to Alex. What the hell was that all about? What possible reason could he have for being friendly with someone who’d clearly been close to Sven? Unless…unless maybe he’d known Sven himself. Unwillingly, I thought of his reaction that day I’d worn Sven’s shirt. Had he thought he’d seen a ghost?

But if he’d known Sven, why wouldn’t he have said something about it? Was it just awkwardness, as he knew I couldn’t remember him? God, maybe I’d known Alex before too? No, I couldn’t have. I’d never been to America, and this was his first time in Iceland.

Wasn’t it? The room felt suddenly chilly. I turned off the tap and limped to the bedroom, flinging myself down on the bed. Mags would have remembered if she’d seen Alex here last year, no question. But maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he’d stayed away from the institute. Maybe he’d only been here to visit Sven.

But why pretend he knew nothing about Sven, about me? And—had he been here at the time of the accident? I got to my feet again, my legs restless, and went to get a glass of water. There were no witnesses to say exactly what had happened at Gullfoss. For all anyone knew, there could have been a third man up on the cliffs with us. One who’d slipped away after we’d fallen, pretended he hadn’t been there.

Why the hell would he do that? I could only think of one reason, and it chilled me to the bone.

No. No, I was being crazy. Imagining things. Why on earth would Alex have wanted to kill me and Sven? And even if he had, why hang around me so much now? I wrapped my arms around myself. At Borgarnes, he’d been so bloody interested in whether my memory was coming back…

This was absurd. He was just another American, from a population of several hundred million. Annoyingly persistent at times, but that didn’t make him a bloody murderer, did it? It must just be a coincidence. Or I was mistaken. There must be hundreds of dark, pretty young women in Reykjavik. I was just jumping to conclusions, that was all. Finding myself in the bathroom again, I stared at the reflection in the mirror. The face I saw looked haunted and uneasy and had dark shadows under darker eyes.

I shivered and headed back to the bedroom. After pulling off my clothes and flinging them on the floor, I climbed under the cold comfort of the duvet. God, she’d hated me.

Was I really as bad for Sven as she’d said?

Chapter Seventeen

I woke up late on Sunday, my head thick with disturbing, half-remembered dreams. Nostalgic for the taste of home, I cooked an English breakfast of bacon and eggs—ironically, something I almost never ate back in Britain. I drew the line at washing it down with a cup of milky tea, though. I’d have to cook breakfast for Viggo sometime, I thought with a warm feeling inside me that dissipated as I remembered Katrin last night.

“You treated him like dirt,”
she’d said. Was that why I couldn’t grieve for Sven? Because I’d never cared for him? Because I’d only cared about Viggo?

Guilt twisted inside me as I shoved my plate in the dishwasher and ran the frying pan under the tap. I slammed the pan back in the sink with a clatter. Why the hell shouldn’t I care about Viggo? Maybe I just wasn’t missing Sven because he didn’t deserve to be missed.

I grabbed my stick, hobbled into the living room and stood, staring out of the window. It was another fine, sunny day, and the water in the far-off bay shone brightly. I wondered what Viggo was doing now. Out with Loki? Or maybe working again. I wasn’t sure which days he drove the riverjet or even if it was the same each week. My hand hovered over my phone several times, but in the end when I picked it up, it wasn’t Viggo’s number I dialled.

“
Halló
?” Mags’s pitch-perfect Icelandic accent threw me for a moment, almost making me think I had a wrong number.

“Mags? It’s Paul.”

Her voice slid effortlessly into middle-class, home-counties English. “Oh, hello, Paul. How lovely to hear from you. Are you having a good weekend?”

“Yes, fine, thanks. Are you busy?”

“Oh no. Just pottering about. Having a lazy Sunday.” There was something of a false brightness about her tone.

“Do you want to meet for a coffee?” I asked, suddenly struck with the idea.

“That’d be lovely! I know, why don’t we meet at Perlan? It’s such a nice day, the views will be fantastic.” Her enthusiasm made me feel guilty I hadn’t suggested getting together at the weekend before now.

“Okay. At least I know I can’t get lost looking for it.” Perlan was a large, futuristic structure on a hill on the outskirts of Reykjavik. The Icelanders, with typical flair for making a virtue out of necessity, had used a cluster of cylindrical hot-water storage tanks as the base for an exhibition centre with a revolving, panoramic restaurant on top. Visible from most areas of the city, it was a shining silver beacon in today’s bright sunshine.

I’d arranged to meet Mags in the café area, which was separate from the main restaurant and looked likely to be considerably cheaper. It was fairly full, mostly of young families and tourists, but she’d managed to find a table, and she gave me a wave.

When I joined her I saw she’d also got me a coffee and a sticky-looking Danish pastry. “Thanks, Mags,” I said as I sat down. “Good thing I wasn’t late.”

“Mmm. I’d have had to eat up yours as well as mine,” she said with a teasing smile.

I narrowed my eyes in mock suspicion. “I’m sure the Danish could have waited, even if the coffee would have got cold.”

“Oh no. I wouldn’t have liked to risk it.” Mags looked like she was suppressing a giggle as she took a bite of her own Danish, already half finished.

“Let me give you some money for those,” I said, taking out my wallet. We’d gone Dutch when we’d been out for pizza.

“Don’t be silly. You can buy me a coffee some other time.”

“No, let me. After all, I invited you.” I tucked a couple of thousand-Krona notes under her plate. “Go on. Please.”

Mags tutted but got out her purse. As she opened it up to put the money in, I noticed a faded photograph inside. Had it been there all the time? I wondered how on earth I’d missed it.

“Is that your family?” I asked gently.

Mags nodded and held her purse so I could see the photo more clearly. It showed a man in his thirties or so with his arm around a mischievous-looking boy. They were clearly father and son, if only because they had matching mops of unruly ginger hair. “That’s Edward, my husband, and Alasdair. He was ten when this was taken.” They were standing on the deck of a yacht, grinning broadly in the sunshine.

“I wish I could have known them.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.