66° North

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Is Ísak going to make it?’

  ‘You never know with head injuries, do you?’

  ‘Well, at least we know where Einar is. He’s unlikely to do much damage while he is at home, and we’ll grab him as soon as he tries to leave.’

  ‘If he’s the only other conspirator,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Do you think there’s another one?’ said Baldur.

  ‘I don’t know. We mustn’t assume that there isn’t. Let me know when you have arrested Einar.’

  Magnus thought through the possibility. Had it been Einar who had shot Óskar and Julian Lister? Or someone else?

  ‘Harpa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Does your father speak English?’

  ‘Not really. Just a few words. Why?’

  So that meant he wouldn’t be able to make his own preparations for the shootings in France or England.

  ‘Has he been away over the last couple of weeks?’ Magnus asked, as gently as he could.

  Harpa stared away from him, out of the car window, at the new little houses on the outskirts of Stykkishólmur. ‘Yes,’ she said, barely audibly. ‘He went fly-fishing. Twice.’

  ‘Does he go hunting as well as fly-fishing?’

  She nodded, still not meeting his eye. ‘He used to go reindeer hunting in the highlands when he was a bit younger and he could afford it.’

  Reindeer were not indigenous to Iceland, but they had been introduced in the eighteenth century and now roamed wild over parts of the interior. Where they were hunted. With rifles.

  ‘Does he have a gun at home?’ Magnus asked.

  Harpa nodded. ‘I’m sure he has a licence.’

  Magnus called Baldur back and told him. The Viking Squad was a good precaution.

  ‘I can’t believe Dad is doing this,’ Harpa said. ‘I mean, I know he hates the bankers. He lost all his savings in Ódinsbanki. And he likes to bear grudges. But the worst thing is I think he did it for me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He thought the bankers had ruined my life. Gabríel Örn. Óskar. He should have blamed me for suggesting that he put his savings into Ódinsbanki shares, but he seems to have blamed them for deceiving me.’

  ‘But that’s true, isn’t it?’ Magnus said. ‘They did.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t ask him to do it, did I?’ Tears were running down her cheeks now. ‘Björn must have suggested it. Dad and Björn. I knew they liked each other; they used to meet up at the Kaffivagninn sometimes. But I had no idea what they were talking about. None.’

  Magnus tried to give her a comforting smile. He did feel sorry for her. The two people she loved most in the world had turned out to be murderers. And she had had no warning.

  She tried to smile back. ‘You know,’ she said, wiping her cheeks, ‘from what Björn was saying, I’m not sure my father, or whoever, is going to shoot someone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Björn was vague about the timing. Yet he was expecting a text when everything was ready. What did he mean by “ready”?’

  ‘I get you,’ said Magnus. He followed Harpa’s idea through. It could be that there was someone else. Unlikely but possible. Or Einar could have found a spot where he was watching a target and waiting for the ideal time to shoot. In which case, why would he go back home?

  What threat was there that would apply while a killer was safe and sound in his own living room?

  Poison? No. A bomb?

  A bomb.

  If there was a bomb primed and ready somewhere in Reykjavík they really were in trouble. They had no clue which of the Outvaders was the intended victim.

  Magnus had an idea. He called Páll, but no reply. Which meant he must still be by the hut, out of reception. With the help of one of the uniformed constables he got hold of him on the police radio.

  ‘Páll, where are you?’

  ‘Securing the scene.’

  That made sense. The hillside was the scene of a murder, after all.

  ‘Can you check the hut? See if there’s a notebook or anything.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait for forensics?’

  ‘No, do it now. We know who killed Björn. We need to know who the next target is.’

  Páll hesitated. ‘OK.’

  ‘Let me know what you find.’

  The car pulled into the car park outside the police station on the edge of Stykkishólmur. Magnus let the others go ahead and waited in the car for the call back. Four minutes, maybe five. He was feeling nauseous. It was a sensation he remembered from football games in high school. The after-effects of concussion.

  His phone rang.

  ‘OK. I checked the hut. There are no notes anywhere.’

  ‘Nothing? Not a laptop?’

  ‘No. There’s a book, that’s all. Looks like he was reading it.’

  Magnus was disappointed. ‘OK. What’s the book?’

  ‘Independent People by Halldór Laxness.’

  ‘That figures,’ said Magnus. He sighed. ‘All right, Páll. Can you do one more thing? Einar might have sent Björn a text, in which case he probably hasn’t received it yet. Can you get his phone and go back up the pass until you get reception?’

  ‘Roger.’

  Independent People. Magnus remembered the painting of Bjartur in Sindri’s apartment. Sindri had obviously encouraged Björn to read the book too. It was a shame that such a good book could be used to justify such twisted ideas.

  Magnus had read it when he was about eighteen. He probably hadn’t appreciated it then, he should reread it.

  His phone rang. It was Árni, not Páll.

  ‘What’s up? Have they got Einar yet?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Not yet. They’re waiting for the Viking Squad.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Árni. ‘I’ve been ordered back to headquarters. Did you find Björn?’

  ‘I did. I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m expecting a call.’ He cut Árni off.

  Páll came back on the radio.

  ‘Got the text. It was from Einar. One word. “Ready.”’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Magnus. He got out of the police car, his brain racing. So Einar was ready. But ready for who? Who the hell was the next victim?

  Wait a moment.

  Independent People. Wasn’t one of the characters in the book called Ingólfur Arnarson? Yes, that was right.

  Who was he? The son of the local landowner Bjartur had worked for? Something like that. Magnus strained to remember. The boy had been named after the first settler of Iceland by his mother, who was a nationalist and a bit of an intellectual snob.

  Sindri was talking about the character in Halldór Laxness’s book, not the man who had landed in Reykjavík a thousand years ago.

  OK, so which of the Outvaders was he? Magnus couldn’t remember much about Laxness’s Ingólfur Arnarson, except that he became rich.

  He needed to find out quickly. Who would know?

  Ingileif. It was one of her favourite books.

  He took a deep breath and dialled her number.

  She answered quickly. ‘Hi, Magnús.’ Her voice was flat. Not pleased to hear from him.

  ‘Ingólfur Arnarson,’ Magnus said. ‘I know who he is. Or at least which character. He’s the man in Independent People. The landowner’s son.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingileif. ‘That makes sense, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t remember the book well. How can we figure out which one of the businessmen he represents?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure he represents any of them,’ Ingileif said.

  ‘What do you mean? He must do. He was very rich, wasn’t he? Didn’t he buy a new car or something? The first in the region?’

  ‘Yes, he was rich. But he was involved with the Cooperative movement. That’s where he got all his influence. Hardly a greedy capitalist, in fact the merchants were his rivals. He put them out of business. Then he went off to Reykjavík.�
�� There was silence on the phone.

  ‘Ingileif?’

  ‘Oh, my God. I know who they mean!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘In Reykjavík Ingólfur Arnarson became a director of the National Bank, and then its governor. And then Prime Minister.’

  ‘Ólafur Tómasson!’ The Prime Minister until the pots-and-pans revolution. The former leader of the Independence Party. And onetime governor of the Central Bank.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ingileif. ‘But, Magnús?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you wait a moment? Just a minute. I need to talk to you. I think I will go to Hamburg. I’m just about to call Svala now.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Ingileif, we’ll have to discuss this later,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  For a second he wondered whether he had made a mistake cutting her off like that.

  Then he called Baldur.

  He outlined his fear. That the next victim was Ólafur Tómasson and the means could be a bomb.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Baldur asked.

  ‘Of course I’m not sure,’ said Magnus. ‘But you need to tell him to be careful. Does he have protection?’

  ‘He did until two months ago. Then we pulled it. Cost savings.’

  ‘Well, you had better get it back, pronto,’ said Magnus and hung up.

  He was standing alone in the car park. The Stykkishólmur police station was a more substantial building than its Grundarfjördur counterpart, as befitted a regional headquarters. A small white concrete office block, shared with the district court.

  He hesitated before entering. There was nothing more he could do, was there? He would have to rely on Baldur to get the message out. That might take several minutes, even longer if there were approvals to go through, people to talk to, decisions to be dithered over. Maybe they would decide once again that Magnus was operating on no more than a hunch.

  Magnus remembered that the former Prime Minister lived in one of the houses on the shore of the Tjörnin, the bird-strewn lake right in the heart of Reykjavík. If Árni was driving from Seltjarnarnes to police HQ, he was right there.

  Magnus called him.

  ‘Árni, where are you right now?’

  ‘On the Hringbraut, just coming up to the university.’

  That was just a few hundred metres from the Tjörnin.

  ‘OK. Listen closely and do exactly as I say.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You know where Ólafur Tómasson lives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. We believe he is the next victim. Probably from a bomb. I want you to go to his house and get him and his family out of there. Don’t let him touch any packages and above all don’t let him get in his car. You got that?’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Magnús? He’s an important guy.’

  ‘Which is why they want to blow him up.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Árni.

  Good man, thought Magnus. Ólafur was famously irascible, especially since he had been forced out of office, and he wouldn’t take kindly to being pushed around by a skinny detective.

  Tough.

  *

  Blue light again.

  Árni put his foot down on the accelerator, swerved round the roundabout in front of the university and in less than a minute was speeding along the road on the edge of the Tjörnin. The houses along the lake were some of Reykjavík’s most majestic, and Ólafur Tómasson’s was at the northern end near the City Hall.

  As he neared the house he could see the familiar tall, gaunt figure of the man himself. He was standing by the door of his Mercedes. Opening it. Getting in.

  Árni leaned on his horn. But that might not be enough to prevent Ólafur from turning on the ignition.

  Ólafur’s car was parked in the driveway outside his house, facing downhill towards the road and the lake. Árni had to do something in the next couple of seconds that would persuade Ólafur not to insert his keys in the ignition, but to get out of his car.

  There was a blonde woman pushing a buggy along the pavement by the lake, pointing at the ducks. Blaring the horn all the while, Árni swerved and aimed straight at her. He saw, rather than heard her scream. At the last second he changed direction and hit a tree. The airbag exploded and smashed into his face.

  He heard the mother’s screams and the sound of shouting and running feet.

  He opened his car door, extricated himself from the airbag and staggered out on to the pavement.

  ‘What the hell do you think you were doing driving that fast?’

  Árni turned to see the angry face of the former Prime Minister of Iceland yelling at him.

  He smiled.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THERE WAS A bomb under Ólafur’s car. Árni checked it himself, crawling under the chassis. Probably a dumb move, but he had to do something to shut up his former Prime Minister. The Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit from the coastguard was called in. More used to dealing with unexploded mines from the Second World War, it took them a while to locate their two experts who were trained to deal with car bombs. One was on holiday, and the other one turned out to be in one of the hot tubs at the Laugardalur pool.

  In the end the expert played it safe and went for a controlled explosion. Wrought havoc with the ex-Prime Minister’s garden, and scared the wits out of the little girl next door.

  The Viking Squad, when it eventually assembled, burst into Harpa’s parents’ house and arrested Einar watching the golf on TV. A forensics team was poring over his garage looking for signs of bomb-making, and finding them.

  In Stykkishólmur police station, Magnus prepared to drive back to Reykjavík. Before he left he brought a cup of coffee in to the interview room where Harpa was waiting. The plan was to drive her down to Reykjavík where she would be formally interviewed at police headquarters. Uniformed officers would escort her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Harpa said, accepting the coffee.

  ‘And thank you for stopping Ísak. I meant to ask you, how did you get down there so fast?’

  ‘Jumped. Just like you.’ She smiled. ‘I seemed to do myself less damage, though. How is Ísak? Is he going to live?’

  ‘He’s in intensive care in hospital. They are keeping him unconscious and giving him drugs to prevent the brain swelling, apparently. They can’t be sure, but the chances are good that he will make a full recovery. Unfortunately.’

  ‘You say that, Magnús, but I’m glad. I don’t want to have anyone else’s death on my conscience.’

  Magnus was going to argue with her, but stopped himself. He sipped his coffee.

  ‘What happens now?’ Harpa asked. ‘Do I go to jail?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Magnus. ‘You may be lucky, with a good lawyer. This is Iceland, not Texas.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can face it.’

  ‘You’ve had a tough time,’ said Magnus. ‘A really tough time. Most other people would have cracked long ago.’

  Harpa smiled, weakly. ‘I think I’m not far off it.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not. Just think of Markús. Keep on thinking of Markús. Hold it together for his sake.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harpa. ‘Yeah.’

  Magnus drained his cup. ‘Despite everything, he’s lucky to have you as his mother. If you hold it together, he’ll grow up into a fine boy. I’m sure he will.’

  Harpa struggled to control her tears. ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed so quietly Magnus could barely hear it.

  The sun was sinking slowly towards the western ocean, brushing the broad shoulder of Bjarnarhöfn Fell as it dropped. Magnus was glad to be alone as he started the drive back to Reykjavík, savouring the two hour interlude between the hubbub of Stykkishólmur police station and police headquarters.

  His phone rang. Magnus didn’t recognize the number, and almost didn’t answer. After the third ring he decided he had better pick it up.

  ‘Magnús.’

  ‘Hello, Magnús, it’s Snorri here.’

  Magnus
felt himself straightening in the driver’s seat. The Big Salmon himself.

  ‘Hello, Snorri.’

  ‘I’m calling to apologize. You were right all along. We should have listened to you.’

  ‘It was a difficult call,’ Magnus said. ‘I never had the evidence.’

  ‘It was a good call. I guess that’s why we have you here. And why we want you to stay.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Magnus. ‘And Snorri?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember these guys are criminals, not terrorists.’

  Snorri laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. I’ll just have to convince everyone else of it.’

  Magnus smiled as he disconnected the phone. The apology was appreciated. Policemen didn’t like to apologize, in his experience, especially important ones.

  He was staying in Iceland. So be it.

  But what about Ingileif? She would have called Svala by now. Taken her decision. Perhaps he should have stayed on the phone with her just a minute longer. Told her to wait, at least until he had warned Ólafur Tómasson.

  But he hadn’t.

  Too late.

  Or was it? He didn’t want her to go. Sure, it was up to her what she did with her life. Sure, Germany was a good opportunity. Perhaps she really did need to get away from him and from Iceland. But he didn’t want her to go.

  He picked up his phone. Selected her number. And waited.

  She didn’t answer. She could probably see it was him calling, but she chose not to pick up.

  Her message kicked in. It was good to hear her voice. The pause for him to leave his message was long. Profound. Unbreakable.

  He hung up.

  The fell at Bjarnarhöfn was coming closer, as was the Berserkjahraun. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. The damned concussion.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car. He stood up straight and took some deep breaths. The fresh air in Iceland is really fresh. The breeze thrust oxygen into his lungs and tingled his pale cheeks.

  After a couple of minutes he felt much better. As he climbed back into the car, he noticed the pathologist’s report into the Benedikt Jóhannesson case lying on the back seat.