66° North

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘So who was involved at this stage?’

  ‘Of the original five, probably just Björn, Sindri and Ísak, who was in London. But I’m convinced that another conspirator joined them. The guy who actually pulled the trigger.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘We have no idea. My bet is that he’s an Icelander who doesn’t speak any foreign languages, but that’s just a guess. Ísak speaks English, I wouldn’t be surprised if Björn does too, and I think they prepared both hits.’

  ‘And is it just the two targets?’

  ‘I think there’s another. A, um, contact of mine spoke to Sindri.’

  ‘By contact you mean girlfriend?’ said Snorri. ‘Baldur told me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Magnus admitted. ‘They were both drunk, but Sindri suggested that there is another target, someone he called Ingólfur Arnarson.’

  ‘The first settler?’

  ‘I thought one of the Viking Outvaders.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘And even if we pick up Björn and Sindri, the assassin, whoever he is, will still be at large. So they are in danger.’

  ‘You think we should warn the Outvaders?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘All of them. Or at least the highest profile ones.’

  Snorri blew through his cheeks as he thought through the consequences of all this. ‘These men are terrorists. Icelandic terrorists.’

  Magnus could see the impending national shame. ‘Seems to me they are criminals,’ he said. ‘A bunch of three or four individuals, not a political movement. We’re talking nutters here, not terrorists.’

  Snorri gave him half a smile. ‘Maybe. But if we are not very careful this is going to get caught up in the Icesave negotiations.’

  ‘We don’t have to cooperate with the British,’ said the Prosecutor. ‘We could force them to make a formal application for assistance. And of course the Lister shooting is in French jurisdiction.’

  ‘We should cooperate,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Magnús, leave the politics to me, I’m going to have to speak to the minister. For now help Baldur arrest these people and find out who their accomplice is. The man who pulls the trigger.’

  Snorri’s phone rang. He answered it. It was his secretary. ‘Put him through,’ he said. He switched to English. ‘Good morning, Chief Superintendent Watts. How can I help you?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  WHEN MAGNUS GOT back to the Violent Crimes Unit, Baldur had the whole team in a meeting. Magnus strode into the conference room and took a seat. Baldur acknowledged his presence with a quick flick of his eyes.

  ‘Árni, I want you to arrest Harpa,’ the inspector commanded. ‘Do you know where to find her?’

  ‘She’ll be at the bakery, I expect. Or her home. I have both addresses.’

  ‘Vigdís. Take a couple of uniformed police officers and arrest Sindri. Magnús, you’ve been in touch with the Grundarfjördur police?’

  Magnus nodded.

  ‘Get them to arrest Björn right away. And bring him down to the station here.’

  ‘I got a result from Icelandair,’ Árni interrupted.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Björn was on a flight from Reykjavík to Amsterdam on Friday. Returned on a flight Saturday evening.’

  ‘In time to get back to Grundarfjördur for Sunday when I saw him,’ said Magnus.

  ‘And when Julian Lister was shot,’ said Baldur. ‘Sounds like he was preparing the ground for someone else.’

  ‘What about Ísak?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Aren’t the British arresting him now?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Magnus. ‘Shall I call them to make sure?’

  Baldur thought a moment. ‘No. Better to leave all communications with the British police to the Commissioner from now on. This could get delicate.’

  Magnus understood that.

  ‘OK, everyone move,’ Baldur said. ‘And when you get them all back here, we’ll start asking them questions. Like who is Ingólfur Arnarson?’

  ‘We need to warn the Outvaders,’ Magnus said.

  ‘I’ll talk to the Commissioner and Thorkell about that,’ said Baldur.

  ‘Do you mind if I interview Sindri?’ Magnus asked Baldur after everyone else had left the conference room.

  ‘I’ll do that with Vigdís. I’d like you to be available, though.’

  ‘Be available?’ Magnus was frustrated. He knew Baldur was the boss, but Magnus was the one who had the case clearest in his mind.

  ‘Look, Magnús. We all have a lot to do. You can start by getting in touch with Grundarfjördur.’

  Magnus went back to his desk and called Constable Páll, telling him to arrest Björn for the murder of Gabríel Örn Bergsson and bring him to police headquarters in Reykjavík as soon as he could. Magnus got the impression that Páll had been expecting his call. He was a good man: Magnus was sure he could trust him to arrest his friend.

  Magnus struggled to control his impatience. Vigdís called in to say that they had found Sindri at his home and he was coming quietly. Then Baldur appeared at Magnus’s desk.

  ‘Árni called. Harpa wasn’t at the bakery. She left with Björn yesterday afternoon and didn’t show up for work today. No one answered at home and her mobile is switched off.’

  ‘How did she seem when she was with Björn?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Baldur. ‘Árni is checking her house now.’

  ‘She’s got a small kid,’ said Magnus. ‘Three years old, I think. Árni should look for the kid. Whoever has the kid may know where Harpa is.’

  Baldur bit back his frustration. It was obvious he didn’t like taking instructions from Magnus. But it was a good point.

  Magnus called Páll back.

  ‘Páll, it’s Magnús. Apparently Björn was with Harpa in Reykjavík yesterday afternoon. They left together.’

  ‘Right,’ said Páll. ‘He’s not at his house, I’ve just checked. But I’m talking to the next-door neighbour now. I think she saw something. I’ll call you right back.’

  Magnus drummed his fingers. The Benedikt Jóhannesson pathologist’s report caught his eye. He would look at that later, when he could concentrate on it.

  It was only five minutes before Páll called back but it seemed much longer.

  ‘The neighbour saw Björn come back home yesterday evening. About six o’clock. He was driving his pickup. She saw him as she was getting out of her own car. She remembers it because she saw his girlfriend fast asleep in the front seat.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘And she recognized Harpa?’

  ‘Yes. Dark curly hair. She’s seen her around a couple of times. Her kitchen looks out over Björn’s driveway and she saw Björn putting stuff in the pickup. He drove off about a quarter of an hour later.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Food. A sleeping bag. She assumed they were going off on a camping trip together. She didn’t actually see a tent, but then she wasn’t watching Björn’s every move.’

  ‘She was pretty close,’ said Magnus. ‘Thank God for nosy neighbours.’ He thought quickly. ‘OK, see if you can find him. Your regional HQ is Stykkishólmur, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll get people here to talk to your superintendent.’

  Magnus considered what to do. The inactivity here was killing him. He’d love to have a go at Sindri himself, but he knew it would be very frustrating to be second fiddle to Baldur. Or third fiddle. He might not even be allowed into the interview room.

  And if Sindri had any sense he wouldn’t say anything, especially if there was another target. Harpa was the only one who would talk. And she was with Björn.

  All Magnus’s instincts told him to go to Grundarfjördur.

  ‘Páll, I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.’

  He hesitated a moment, grabbed the Benedikt Jóhannesson file, and headed for the door.

 
Árni drove up the narrow street of Bakkavör, one of Reykjavík’s most exclusive, leading up from the western shore of Seltjarnarnes. The houses were much less grand than the rich people’s homes he had seen in America, and indeed to an American eye they were nothing special, but in Reykjavík, a city of small, unpretentious, wind-battered dwellings, they were something.

  The street was split into two. On one side, the houses were bigger, the sea views slightly better. Many of these properties belonged to the newly wealthy, including the owners of a multinational food company which they had named ‘Bakkavör’. On the other side of the street were slightly more modest homes, with the view of the sea partially hidden. Many of these were owned by the quota kings.

  Árni stopped outside one of these and rang the bell.

  The door was answered by an older and plumper version of Harpa.

  ‘Good morning,’ Árni said. ‘My name is Árni and I am with the Metropolitan Police. I am looking for Harpa.’

  ‘Oh, hello. Come in,’ the woman said frowning. As Árni took off his shoes he saw Harpa’s son staring at him. There was an unmistakeable resemblance to the late Óskar Gunnarsson.

  Harpa’s mother, whose name was Gudný, led Árni into the kitchen. Her grandson disappeared into a living room.

  ‘Has something happened to her?’ Gudný asked.

  ‘No,’ said Árni. He almost added, ‘at least we don’t think so,’ but thought better of it. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘She’s gone off with Björn, her boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, I see. And do you know where she has gone?’

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘We just need her help with an inquiry. The death of Gabríel Örn Bergsson.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ The frowned deepened. ‘No, I don’t know where she is. My husband went to drop off Markús at her house around the corner and found a note. It just said she had gone off with Björn for a few days.’

  ‘It didn’t say where?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with her?’

  ‘No,’ said Gudný, still frowning.

  ‘What about Markús?’ Árni asked. ‘Hasn’t she wanted to talk to him? Say good night last night?’

  ‘No. I tried to call her on her mobile, but it was switched off.’

  ‘Do you think that’s strange?’ Árni asked.

  Gudný sighed. ‘Yes. A little. I mean, she always gets in touch when she is away with Björn. To speak to Markús as much as anything else. Is she all right?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Árni. He watched as Gudný’s eyes widened. ‘We believe she is in Grundarfjördur with Björn. Or she was. Björn was seen loading his truck with supplies. Where do you think they might have gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Camping perhaps? Perhaps he has taken her out on a boat? I don’t know.’

  Árni considered the woman’s replies. They seemed to reflect genuine ignorance of where her daughter was.

  ‘Has she had a row with Björn, do you think?’

  ‘No,’ said Gudný. ‘At least not that I know of. I don’t think they ever row.’

  Árni raised his eyebrows. Couples always rowed, in his experience.

  ‘Harpa looks up to Björn,’ Gudný said. ‘She relies on him. She has had a very bad year. First losing her job, then her boyfriend killing himself. Björn has been a rock the whole time.’

  Árni was pretty sure he wouldn’t get anything more out of Harpa’s mother. It was clear that Harpa had kept her in the dark about what was really worrying her. ‘You say your husband found the note?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he around somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s fiddling about in the garage.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  Gudný led Árni out of the kitchen towards the back of the house. ‘He’s tying flies,’ she said. ‘He’s a very keen fly-fisherman. He can’t go sea-fishing any more, so fly-fishing is the next best thing. He just came back from a few days in the north.’

  Einar, Harpa’s father, looked very little like her. A squat strong man with grey hair, blue flinty eyes and the familiar weather-beaten face of one who had spent decades on the North Atlantic waves.

  There was something about the man’s body language when they were introduced that suggested to Árni that he knew more than his wife about Harpa. This wasn’t a surprise visit. He knew his daughter was in trouble.

  ‘Do you mind if I speak to your husband alone?’ Árni said.

  Gudný hesitated and then left them to it.

  Árni looked over Einar’s shoulder, where there were indeed signs of fly tying – he saw something in a vice and a magnifying glass. Árni examined it: a few drab feathers wrapped around a hook.

  ‘Doesn’t look much like a fly to me,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not a salmon,’ said Einar.

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Have you ever been fly-fishing?’ Einar asked.

  ‘No. It always seemed a bit expensive for me,’ Árni said.

  ‘It’s got cheaper in the last year or two, with the kreppa. But then people have less money to throw around. I can’t afford the good rivers any more.’

  ‘Your wife said you had just come back from a trip. Any luck?’

  ‘Some. It’s more of a challenge when there are fewer fish to catch, and that’s fun in its own way. As long as you catch some. Which I did this time. Have a seat.’

  Árni sat on a plastic chair, while Einar removed a small coil of wire from another one and sat opposite him. Árni scanned the garage. There was no room for a car: it was full of tools and other clutter, including a set of golf clubs in a corner – a bolthole for a practical man in retirement who needed things to do with his hands.

  ‘How much do you know?’ Árni asked the man in question.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the trouble Harpa is in.’

  ‘What trouble?’ The question was more of a challenge than the response of a worried parent on hearing bad news. Einar’s face was rock hard. Impassive.

  ‘I think you know that Harpa is in trouble,’ Árni said. ‘I think you know more than your wife. We can discuss this with her. Or you can tell me. How much do you know?’

  Einar sighed. He smiled grimly. ‘Quite a bit. I went to drop off Markús the other day and I found Harpa collapsed on the floor, weeping. She told me everything.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  Einar looked uncomfortable. ‘I can’t say. It’s up to her to talk to you.’

  ‘You don’t want to incriminate her?’

  Einar shrugged. His square shoulders stiffened. An immovable object.

  ‘Did she tell you about Gabríel Örn? About what really happened to him?’

  Einar didn’t reply.

  ‘Look. Einar. We need to locate Harpa urgently. We know she is with Björn. Do you have any idea where they might be?’

  Einar shook his head.

  ‘We know that Gabríel Örn’s death wasn’t suicide. We know your daughter struck him, and he fell and hit his head. I don’t want to ask you about that, at least not now. We can discuss it later. But we believe that some of the people she was with that night were involved in the shooting of Óskar Gunnarsson and Julian Lister, the British government minister.’

  Now Árni did get a reaction. ‘That’s ridiculous! I know Björn. He’s a good man. In fact…’ Einar hesitated.

  Árni waited.

  ‘In fact Harpa asked me to check where Björn was when those two people were shot. I did that. He was out at sea the first time, and in Grundarfjördur harbour the second.’

  Árni decided not to point out that Björn had actually been to France the day before the ex-Chancellor was shot. But it was interesting that Harpa herself had been suspicious enough to get her father to check out her boyfriend.

  ‘Einar, although we know that Björn did not carry out the shootings himself, we believe he was involved,’ Árni said. ‘In which case your daughter might
be in some danger. Wherever she is. Now do you have any idea where that might be?’

  ‘I can’t believe it of Björn,’ Einar said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. Now, where is Harpa?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Einar said. ‘The note just said they were going away for a couple of days. It didn’t say where.’

  ‘Who signed the note?’ Árni asked. ‘Was it Harpa?’

  ‘No,’ said Einar. ‘It was Björn.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  MAGNUS WAS MAKING good time. The road beyond Borgarnes was virtually empty, and there were long straight stretches where he could put his foot down.

  To his left, in the distance, the sea glinted in rays of sunshine filtering through the clouds. To his right, a lava field rolled all the way up to the road. Beyond that, through partings in the grey curtain of mist, he could see the flanks of mountains, grey battlements with moist green valleys in the gaps between their turrets.

  In front of him, growing steadily larger as he approached it, was the Eldborg crater, a perfect circle of raised grey stone thrusting up out of the plain.

  It wasn’t just the urgency of arresting Björn that was propelling Magnus forward at such speed. It was Ingileif. His grandfather. Benedikt’s murder. His own father’s murder. Ollie’s distress. Thoughts all crowding in on him, requiring his attention.

  But he needed to focus. On Björn. On Harpa. And on Ingólfur Arnarson, whoever he was.

  He wished he had a gun; he felt naked without it. He doubted Björn was armed, but he could be. They had used a handgun in London, a rifle in Normandy, why shouldn’t he have a firearm in Iceland? A cop without a gun wasn’t a real cop, as far as Magnus was concerned.

  After a couple of kilometres of straight road, a bend rushed towards him faster than he expected, and the Range Rover nearly overturned as he took the corner.

  He eased his foot off the accelerator a touch.

  His phone rang. He glanced at the display before he answered.

  ‘Hi, Sharon.’

  ‘Ísak’s gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We went to pick him up. His girlfriend said he left the country yesterday. Had to go back to Iceland to see his sick mother. She’s getting worse apparently, or at least that’s what he told her.’