Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

course, if he hadn’t been in some Mickey-Mouse country, he would have a gun, in which case things would be much simpler. As it was …
    As it was, Magnus could see Pétur sizing him up. Pétur was tall and rangy. But Magnus was big, and he knew he looked like he could look after himself. People usually didn’t mess with Magnus.
    Magnus heard a groan behind him. Ingileif. That was good news: at least she was alive.
    ‘OK, Pétur,’ Magnus said evenly. ‘You had better give yourself up. There’s no way out for you now. Come with me.’
    Pétur hesitated. Then he glanced behind him, at the boiling river and the jagged rocks rising out of it. In a moment, he had turned and was gone.
    Magnus took a few steps and looked over the rim. There was a kind of path, or rather a series of hand-and footholds that led down to some rocks on the edge of the river. He could see that it would just be possible to clamber along these, down almost at the level of the river, and to climb up again further upstream.
    Magnus descended after Pétur. The spray had left the rocks extremely slippery, and Magnus had real trouble keeping his footing. Pétur was taking more risks, widening the gap. Magnus realized he would have been much better off keeping to the cliff top; he could probably have run upstream to the point Pétur was aiming for before Pétur reached it. It was too late now.
    Magnus felt his footing slip. He grabbed hold of the rock with one hand. Below, the river rushed headlong to the top edge of the waterfall. The water was a beautiful deadly mixture of green and white.
    Pure cold death.
    Magnus hauled himself up with both arms and lay panting on the rock. He saw Pétur skip across three rocks barely five feet above the river. The man’s balance was extraordinary.
    But then Pétur slipped. Like Magnus he grabbed hold of the rock with one arm and held on. But unlike Magnus, he couldn’t find a hold for his other hand. He dangled there, swinging, his legs bunched up beneath him, desperately trying to keep his feet out of the water, lest the river grabbed them and snatched him down.
    Magnus leaped on to one rock. Another. His sense of balance was not as good as Pétur’s. The rocks were about ten feet from the cliff edge now, out in the river.
    This was stupid.
    Pétur stared at him, his face wincing in agony at the effort of hanging on with one arm, his bald head dripping with moisture.
    He couldn’t hold on much longer.
    Magnus turned. He could see Ingileif standing on the edge of the cliff shouting and waving. She was beckoning to him to come. Magnus couldn’t hear what she was yelling above the roar, but he could see her lips. ‘Leave him!’ they seemed to be shouting.
    Magnus turned back to Pétur. Ingileif was right. He watched the man who had murdered four people, including his own father, and who had just tried to murder his own sister, fight for his life.
    Pétur’s eyes met Magnus’s. Pétur knew that Magnus had given up trying to reach him.
    He closed his eyes, his grip slipped and he fell without a cry. His body was whisked along the top of the spate and over the rim of the waterfall.
    Within two seconds he was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
    M AGNUS SAW INGILEIF standing next to her brother’s white BMW four-wheel-drive, with the snow-covered mountain rising above her.
    He pulled up beside her and got out of his car.
    ‘You’re late,’ she said. Her face was pink in the cold, her eyes shining.
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Never mind. I’m glad you came.’
    Magnus smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me.’
    ‘I thought you might have gone back to America.’
    ‘Tomorrow. Although everyone in the police department thinks I’ve already left.’
    ‘So where are you staying?’
    ‘I can’t really tell you.’
    Ingileif frowned. ‘I would have thought that by now you would have trusted me.’
    ‘Oh, no. It’s not that. Let’s just say I’ve learned the hard way that the fewer people who know where I am the better.’
    There was a remote possibility that Soto would send out a replacement for the hit man who had shot Árni, so the Police Commissioner had decided to let everyone think that Magnus had flown back to Boston. Actually, he had sent Magnus to stay with his brother at his farm an hour and a half to the north of Reykjavík. It was a beautiful spot, on the edge of a fjord, with outstanding views. And the Commissioner’s brother and his family were hospitable.
    Nobody had heard anything from Colby. That was a