66 Degrees North

by Michael Ridpath

  He knew she needed it.

  To her surprise, safe in his arms, Harpa began to cry.

  Einar broke away to look at her. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘The boss of Ódinsbanki has been murdered. Óskar Gunnarsson.’

  ‘He probably deserved it.’

  ‘Dad!’ Harpa knew that her father disliked bankers with a passion, especially those who had fired his beloved daughter, but that was a bit callous, even for him.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, did you know him?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Harpa said. ‘A bit.’

  Einar was looking straight at her, his blue eyes seeing right into her soul. He knows I’m lying, Harpa thought in panic. Just like he knew I was lying when I talked to the police about Gabríel Örn. She felt herself blush.

  She stepped back and collapsed on a kitchen chair and started to sob.

  Einar poured a cup of coffee for both of them and sat down opposite her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Harpa shook her head. She tried, and succeeded, to control her tears. Her father waited. ‘How was the fishing?’ she asked him.

  She meant the fly-fishing. Einar had had to give up sea-fishing fifteen years before when a wave had broken over the Helgi and flung him against a winch, breaking his knee. He had spent a few years managing the boat from land before selling it and his quota for hundreds of millions of krónur. Since then he had been a wealthy retired fisherman. Until he had listened to his daughter, that is.

  At first, he had invested the money in high-interest accounts at Ódinsbanki, which gave him plenty of income to live on. But some of his mates were making a fortune speculating on currencies or investing in the booming Icelandic stock market. He had asked his clever daughter who worked for a bank for advice.

  She had told him to steer clear of the currency speculation and of investing in the racier new shares on the stock exchange. But bank stocks, they were safe. And she could recommend Ódinsbanki. It was the smartest of all the Icelandic banks.

  And so Einar had put all his savings in Ódinsbanki shares. Shares which were all but worthless when the government nationalized the banks the previous autumn.

  Harpa wondered how he could still afford to go fly-fishing.

  ‘I didn’t catch much. And it rained most of the time. But I’m going again over the weekend. Maybe my luck will change.’ He put his arm around his daughter. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell me?’

  For a moment Harpa considered it. Telling him everything. His love for her was unconditional, wasn’t it? He would stand by her whatever she had done. Wouldn’t he?

  But what she had done was awful. Unforgivable. She had certainly never forgiven herself, could never possibly forgive herself in the future. He was a good man. How could he forgive her?

  She couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.

  So Harpa shook her head. ‘No, Dad. There’s nothing.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  October 1934

  BENEDIKT HAD A really good idea for a game.

  He had just finished the Saga of the People of Eyri and he had read that there was a chieftain called Björn from Breidavík on the other side of the Snaefells Peninsula, across the mountains from Hraun and Bjarnarhöfn, who had travelled all the way to a land far overseas that Benedikt guessed was America. Björn had become a chief there amongst the natives. What if Hallgrímur and Benedikt discovered America?

  Hallgrímur wanted the berserkers to go too. They could fight the Skraelings, the name the Vikings had given to the Native Americans. Benedikt said that was all right.

  But they would need to go on a long journey of exploration. Hallgrímur suggested that they go to Swine Lake, a lake formed by the congealed lava several kilometres to the south. Although Benedikt’s mother was happy for him to be out playing for long periods, Hallgrímur’s was much stricter. So he waited until his father had ridden off for the day to Stykkishólmur, the nearest town, and his mother had gone to visit the wife at a neigh-bouring farm.

  It was hard slow going over the lava field, especially since the boys were careful to keep out of view. There was some sunshine, but it was cold, with a stiff breeze blowing in from the north-east. Snow had fallen on the mountains to the south the week before, and there was a dusting on the top of Bjarnarhöfn Fell. They paused to watch a motor car in the distance clatter down from the Kerlingin Pass on the high road from Borgarnes to Stykkishólmur. A horse neighed in fright.

  ‘A Buick,’ Benedikt said. He was knowledgeable about motor cars, or claimed to be, although Hallgrímur had his doubts. Every car seemed to be a Buick.

  A pair of eider ducks flew low overhead, on their way back to the dwarf willows by the stream at Bjarnarhöfn.

  They pressed on. Benedikt was getting tired, as was Hallgrímur. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But then the Vikings who discovered America had put up with much worse conditions than this. And Hallgrímur was a berserker. He certainly couldn’t give up.

  ‘Halli, let’s go back!’

  ‘Don’t whine, Benni.’

  ‘But I’m tired!’

  Hallgrímur sighed. ‘All right. We’ll rest for a couple of minutes. But then we have to get on to America!’

  They found a comfortable hollow and sat down. The lava protected them from the wind, and the sun warmed their cheeks. Hallgrímur looked up at the savage profile of the Kerlingin Pass, with its outlandish shapes along the ridge. From here he could just make out the silhouette of the Kerlingin troll herself, a giant woman walking along with a bag over her shoulder. The bag was full of naughty children from Stykkishólmur. The troll had been caught by the rising sun just before she had returned to her cave and was frozen there, on top of the pass, for evermore.

  Could the berserkers beat the troll in a fair fight? Hallgrímur wondered. It would be tough. Maybe both of them together could.

  He turned to ask Benedikt for his opinion when he heard voices, angry voices.

  ‘Do you think they will ever find him?’ It was Hallgrímur’s mother, and she was sobbing.

  ‘No chance.’ His father. They were coming closer. ‘He’s at the bottom of the lake and he will stay there. The fish will eat him. It’s what he deserves.’

  ‘You are a horrible vile man! I’m not going back with you!’

  ‘Do you want to join him, you whore? Well, do you?’

  Hallgrímur heard his mother sobbing.

  ‘I thought not. I left the horse by the road. Now, come on!’

  They were really close now. Hallgrímur and Benedikt could not risk being seen; Hallgrímur could only guess at how angry his parents would be if they discovered him. The boys pressed themselves tight against the ground, their faces buried in the moss. It was only after Hallgrímur was sure that his parents were long gone that he raised his head.

  ‘Benni? What were they talking about? What’s a whore?’

  His friend didn’t answer. He was staring over the lava field towards Swine Lake, tears streaming down his face.

  Thursday, 17 September 2009

  It was still dark when Harpa walked along the Nordurströnd to the bakery. She had had the job for a couple of months. During the summer she had enjoyed the walk, with the lights of Reykjavík blinking sleepily as the town woke up in front of her, and the sun rising over the mountains to the east, beating a golden path towards her over the bay. But that morning the dawn was just a band of steel blue under the clouds on the horizon. A cold breeze clipped in from the sea. She looked forward to the warm comforting smell of bread from the bakery’s ovens.

  When she had first been fired from Ódinsbanki, she had spent a couple of months in shock, cocooned in her house with her son. But eventually she realized she would have to get a job. She considered the bakery that she stopped in every day on her way to work. They liked her, she was sure they would be bound to hire her, but she could do better, she thought.

  Well, it turned out that she couldn’t. So after a couple of months of
fruitless search she presented herself to Dísa, the woman who ran the bakery. Dísa was kind but firm. There were no vacancies. It was only then that the truth hit Harpa. In the kreppa there were no jobs for someone like Harpa. None.

  She tried everywhere; it was only at the end of June that Dísa eventually called her and said that a vacancy was opening up and Harpa could work for them. It was a good job: the people were friendly and it provided some flexibility for her to spend time with Markús. Her parents looked after their grandson in the early morning, and took him to the nursery. And she earned some money.

  Not nearly enough to make the mortgage payments though.

  She thought again about Óskar’s death. And Gabríel Örn. The familiar anxiety wriggled in her stomach. She stopped. Faced the breeze coming in from the sea. Took some deep breaths. And wept.

  Björn. She needed to see Björn. He was always up early, looking for work on a fishing boat. She pulled out her phone and dialled his number.

  He answered quickly. ‘Hi, Harpa, how are you?’

  ‘Not good.’ She could hear the sound of engines and waves in the background. Sometimes he could get reception on his mobile when he was out at sea. ‘Are you fishing?’

  ‘Just on our way out. What’s up?’

  ‘Did you see the news. About Óskar Gunnarsson?’

  ‘The banker? Yes. Did you know him?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Wasn’t he one of the bastards who fired you?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  Harpa gulped. ‘But it just brings the whole Gabríel Örn thing back.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Björn’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

  ‘Björn? I hate to ask you this, but can you come down to Reykjavík?’

  ‘That’s going to be a bit difficult. We’ll be back in harbour tonight, but I’m going out again for a couple of days tomorrow afternoon. Maybe on Sunday?’

  ‘Any chance you could come late tonight? I really need to see you.’ It was two and a half hours from Grundarfjördur, although Björn could do it considerably faster on his motorbike. Seltjarnarnes was still a long drive after a full day’s fishing.

  ‘Yes,’ Björn said. ‘Yes. I’ll be there. Late. But I’ll be there.’

  ‘Thank you, Björn.’ She could feel the tears coming again. ‘I really need you. You are the only one I can speak to about this.’

  ‘Hey, Harpa, I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way.’

  ‘I love you,’ said Harpa.

  ‘I love you too.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘GOOD MORNING, MAGNÚS.’

  Baldur’s tone was icy as he welcomed Magnus into his office. Two other detectives, Árni and Vigdís Audarsdóttir were already waiting.

  It had proved remarkably easy for Magnus to get assigned to the case. The biggest problem had been summoning up the courage to call Chief Superintendent Thorkell back.

  Thorkell had been businesslike on the phone, although he did start off the conversation with a dig. ‘Ah, Magnús, you took longer than I had been led to believe.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent,’ Magnus began. ‘You see I dropped the phone and-’

  ‘I want you on the Óskar Gunnarsson case,’ Thorkell interrupted.

  ‘Good,’ said Magnus.

  ‘That was what you were calling about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes. Yes.’

  ‘OK. Be in Baldur’s office downtown at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. He will be expecting you. I’ll square it with the police college director.’

  ‘Very good. Thank you.’

  Thorkell hung up, but Magnus heard the beginnings of a guffaw just before the line went dead. Somehow Magnus thought that Thorkell would not keep his earlier eavesdropping confidential.

  Oh, well. Magnus glanced at Árni. No smirk yet: he hadn’t heard. Vigdís, the other detective, was much too professional to betray gossip. And he would soon find out whether Baldur knew.

  ‘A little tired this morning, are we?’ Baldur said with the tiniest of smiles. He knew. It wasn’t really a smile, more of a twitch on one side of his thin mouth. Baldur had a long lugubrious face and a high dome of a forehead. Not one of the Metropolitan Police’s greatest jokers.

  ‘Fully refreshed,’ said Magnus, trying not to think too much about Ingileif still curled up in his bed, and more about the task at hand.

  ‘I spoke to an officer from the British police in London yesterday,’ Baldur said. ‘Her name was,’ he paused as he examined his notes, ‘Detective Sergeant Sharon Piper. At this stage she has no reason to think that there is an Icelandic connection. Which is surprising when you think that the British believe we are all a bunch of terrorists.’

  Baldur was referring to the British invocation of anti-terrorist legislation the previous October to seize the London assets of one of the Icelandic banks. It still rankled, a year later, especially with the controversy over the Icesave repayment negotiations.

  ‘Did she give you any details of what happened?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Not much, it is still very early in the investigation.’ Baldur’s English wasn’t very good. Magnus wondered whether he had understood all of what Piper was saying. ‘You should call her this morning, see if she has turned up anything new.’

  He dictated a phone number which Magnus wrote down.

  ‘Árni, Vigdís, what did you find out last night?’

  ‘Óskar has no criminal record,’ Árni said. ‘I did check with the Financial Crimes Unit and he is under investigation by the Special Prosecutor.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Market manipulation and securities fraud,’ Árni said, confidently.

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Baldur asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Árni admitted. ‘Something about lending money to people who bought their shares. Or sold their shares. Or something.’

  Baldur shook his head in despair. ‘Vigdís?’

  Vigdís was a conscientious detective of about thirty. She was wearing a white Keflavík basketball sweatshirt, and her disconcertingly long legs were clad in jeans. ‘Óskar is thirty-nine. Until last October he was chairman of Ódinsbanki. He is also a major shareholder, through the family holding company OBG Investments, which is registered in Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. As you know, he was one of the most successful of the Viking Raiders, the businessmen who built up big foreign operations for their companies.’

  ‘And dumped us all into this shit,’ Baldur muttered.

  ‘He was well respected amongst his fellow bankers, at least until the kreppa broke last year. Since then he has spent most of his time in London. He was forced to resign as chairman of Ódinsbanki last November.’

  Magnus noticed that Vigdís had a photograph in the file in front of her.

  ‘Can I take a look?’ he asked. She slid the print over to him.

  A good-looking man with dark floppy hair stared confidently into the camera. He had large brown eyes and a square, cleft chin. He looked successful but approachable.

  ‘Is he married?’ Baldur asked. ‘Sharon Piper mentioned a girlfriend was with him when he died.’

  ‘Married Kamilla Símonardóttir in 1999, divorced 2004, two children. He did have a Russian girlfriend, Tanya Prokhorova. Was it her?’

  ‘She didn’t give me a name,’ said Baldur. ‘Good work so far. I don’t think we need go overboard on helping the British on this, but I do want to make it clear that there is no Icelandic involvement. Of course, if you do turn up anything, let me know.’ He said this in a tone that made clear he was sure they wouldn’t.

  They left Baldur’s office. Magnus commandeered an empty desk in the Violent Crimes Unit. He felt invigorated: it was good to be involved in a real investigation, even if he was only on the periphery of the inquiry and a thousand miles from the body. Vigdís and Árni joined him as Magnus made the call to London.<
br />
  ‘DS Piper.’

  ‘Hi, there. This is Magnus Jonson. I’m with the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police.’

  Magnus realized he had introduced himself using his American name. He had two identities. In Iceland he had been christened Magnús, pronounced ‘Magnoos’. His father was Ragnar, and his grandfather Jón, so his father was Ragnar Jónsson and he was Magnús Ragnarsson. So far so simple. Except that when he arrived in the States at the age of twelve the bureaucracy couldn’t cope with the fact that he had a different surname to both his father and his mother, whose name was Margrét Hallgrímsdóttir, and like so many immigrants before him he had changed his name to something easier on the American ear. He became Magnus Jonson. On returning to Iceland he had reverted to Ragnarsson, but that sounded strange when he was speaking English.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ said Piper.

  ‘Do you mind if I put you on the speaker?’ said Magnus. ‘I’m here with two detectives, Árni and Vigdís.’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  Magnus clicked the button on his phone and put down the receiver. ‘Inspector Baldur gave us some background on the homicide, but maybe you can tell us some more?’

  ‘You speak very good English,’ said Piper. ‘Better than your inspector. I wasn’t sure how much he understood.’

  Magnus looked over his shoulder at Baldur’s closed office door. ‘Thank you,’ he said, resisting the smart-ass comment. ‘And so do you.’ Piper’s British accent was a local London one, as far as he could tell.

  ‘Right,’ Piper began. ‘Gunnarsson was killed at twelve forty-five on Wednesday morning. Shot in the chest in the hallway of his house with three rounds from a SIG Sauer P226. He died before the ambulance got there.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘His girlfriend was in bed. She said the bell rang, Gunnarsson answered the door, she heard him talking to someone. The front door shut. A few seconds later there were the three shots and the front door banged again. Then she heard a motorbike start up and roar off.’