66 Degrees North

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘The neighbours hear it?’

  ‘Yes. Three of them. They heard the shots. They heard the girl-friend’s screams. And they heard the motorbike, although one of them said it could have been a scooter. Small engine. We’ve got CCTV pictures of several motorbikes at about that time on the Old Brompton Road and the Fulham Road which are the two main streets at either side of Onslow Gardens. We’re trying to trace them all now.’

  ‘Any Icelandic connection?’

  ‘Nothing firm. The girlfriend said that she heard Gunnarsson talking with the visitor in a foreign language. It could have been Icelandic. Or Russian. Or anything else that wasn’t English or Spanish for that matter. The girlfriend is Venezuelan, by the way.’

  ‘Russian? Why do you say Russian?’

  ‘We found a little yellow Post-It note with Gunnarsson’s address written in Russian letters. What do you call it? Cyrillic. It was screwed up in a ball by the gate to the front garden.’

  ‘That’s a rookie mistake for a hit man to make,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Yes,’ Piper agreed. ‘But it might not have been the killer who dropped it. The killer may well have been someone Gunnarsson knew. He did let him in, after all.’

  ‘In which case the killer could have been an Icelander,’ said Magnus. ‘Is there much of a Russian connection? Óskar had a Russian girlfriend, right, before the Venezuelan?’ Magnus checked his notes. ‘Tanya Prokhorova.’

  ‘We’ve interviewed her. She claims she dumped him two months ago. She’s a model, skinny, legs up to her armpits, but she’s switched on, all right. Degree in accounting – she claims she realized that Gunnarsson was actually skint which is more or less why she got rid of him.’

  ‘Does she have Russian friends?’

  ‘She does. She’s right in with the billionaires’ circle in London. And some of those are pretty dodgy. What about you? Have you turned up a Russian connection in Reykjavík?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Magnus. ‘But we will ask around. Óskar was under investigation here for securities fraud and market manipulation.’

  ‘There are rumours in the City that some of the Icelandic banks got their money from the Russian mafia,’ Piper said.

  Magnus raised his eyebrows and looked at his colleagues. Árni looked baffled. Vigdís shook her head. ‘We’ll check that out too,’ Magnus said, aware of his own ignorance. ‘We’ll call you at the end of the day with an update.’

  ‘Great. Cheers, Magnus.’

  Magnus turned to his colleagues. ‘Did you get all that?’ he asked in Icelandic.

  He knew Árni would. Árni had studied Criminology at a small college in Indiana, and his English was very good. But Vigdís claimed she didn’t speak it, a claim Magnus didn’t believe. All Icelanders under the age of thirty-five spoke some English, and he didn’t see why she shouldn’t just because of her colour.

  For Vigdís had the distinction of being the only black police officer in the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police. She was fed up with Icelanders and foreigners treating her as if she wasn’t an Icelander herself. As she had explained to Magnus, even though her father had been an American serviceman at the US air base in Keflavík, she had never met him, had no desire to meet him, and thought herself as Icelandic as Björk.

  Magnus liked her. She was a conscientious police officer, and there was something comforting and familiar for an American cop working with a black face among so many pale ones.

  Árni nodded, but Vigdís didn’t respond.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Magnus. ‘OK. Let’s figure out who is going to do what.’

  *

  The Ódinsbanki headquarters was on Borgartún, a boulevard that ran along the bay, lined with expensively designed glass- and marble-clad buildings. It was not the dense thicket of skyscrapers that you would find in a US city’s financial district, it was more sedate than that and more soulless.

  Árni and Magnus pulled up into a car park behind one of the most lavish offices. They walked through revolving doors under the words ‘New Ódinsbanki’. The lobby echoed with the sound of rushing water from the various waterfalls, fountains and streams that flowed around the glass atrium.

  They were met by the Chief Executive’s assistant, who took them up in the elevator to the top floor. She led them through a dealing room big enough to seat forty. It was eerily quiet, the screens blank, the chairs empty, apart from a group of a dozen or so men and women lined along the far wall. Behind these survivors was a wonderful view across the bay to Mount Esja, at that moment squatting under a grey cloud.

  ‘It’s quiet today,’ the assistant said. And then, with a wry smile: ‘It’s quiet every day.’

  Eventually, after a couple of twists and turns, they came to the Chief Executive’s office and met the man himself. He was tall, about sixty, with a strong square face, thick grey hair and an ingrained frown. His name was Gudmundur Rasmussen and he had been turfed out of retirement to take over the running of the bank a year ago. His office was ostentatiously plain: simple desk, functional chairs and conference table. A couple of packing cases were stacked in the corner. It reminded Magnus a little of the police headquarters he had just left.

  ‘Terrible news about Óskar, terrible,’ Gudmundur said. ‘I didn’t really know him well. He was from a younger generation, we did things very differently in my day.’ He shook his head and tutted. ‘Very differently. Of course, I have spent most of the last year trying to clear up the mess that Óskar and his cronies left.’

  ‘Was he popular within the bank?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Gudmundur said. ‘Yes he was. Even after all the mistakes he made came to light. He had charisma, people liked working for him.’ The frown deepened. ‘It has made my job difficult competing with that. The staff all seem to hark back to the good old days when Óskar was in charge. They don’t seem to realize that they weren’t good, they were disastrous. Things have to change. Now the bank is owned by the government we must behave cautiously. Not do anything rash.’

  There was a knock at the door, and a man in his late twenties entered. He was self-assured with slicked-back hair and an expensive suit. A hint of cologne entered the office with him. He proffered his boss a single sheet of paper. ‘Can you sign off on this, Gudmundur?’

  Gudmundur grabbed the paper and scanned it. ‘But these people are brokers, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. We do a lot of business with them.’

  ‘No. The bank’s not paying for this. I’ve told you before, if it’s not a client, you pay for your own lunch.’

  He stared at the young banker as he returned the paper into his hands, unsigned.

  ‘But-’

  ‘I’ve been very clear,’ Gudmundur said.

  The banker took back the paper and left the office without another word.

  Gudmundur shook his head. ‘Some of these people don’t realize the world has changed. Now. Where were we?’

  ‘You were saying Óskar was popular. He didn’t have any enemies in the bank?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Not that I am aware of. He may well have outside. I mean he is one of the gang of young bankers that has ruined the country, and people blame him for that, along with the others.’ Gudmundur shook his head. ‘They just didn’t have the experience to run a bank. It was irresponsible to let them do it.’

  Magnus detected as much pleasure as pain in Gudmundur’s reaction to the comeuppance of the whippersnappers. ‘We understand that Óskar was under investigation by the Special Prosecutor for market manipulation. What was that about?’

  ‘Lending money to clients and friends to buy shares in the bank, and doing it secretly. At least that is what the allegation is.’

  ‘Were any of these clients Russians?’

  Gudmundur’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be absolutely sure. There is a web of holding companies and subsidiaries in places like Tortola and Liechtenstein and it’s a nightmare trying to figure out who the real owners are. But the bank has very few Russia
n clients.’ He paused. ‘In fact, none that I can think of.’

  ‘Presumably some of these offshore companies were owned indirectly by Óskar?’

  ‘Yes. The main holding company is OBG Investments. As well as Ódinsbanki it has holdings in a major chain of hotels and some retailers in Germany and Britain. And that’s just what is public knowledge. The company is run by Emilía Gunnarsdóttir, Óskar’s sister. Their offices are right here on Borgartún.’

  Magnus asked some more questions about the bank and Óskar, and Árni took copious notes, although Magnus got the impression that he wasn’t really following what was going on.

  Just as they were about to leave, Árni asked his own question. ‘Didn’t Gabríel Örn Bergsson work here?’

  ‘Yes he did,’ Gudmundur replied. ‘That was another sad case. It is unfortunate that two senior members of staff died in such awful circumstances, no matter how much damage they did to the bank.’

  ‘Did Gabríel Örn do much damage?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gudmundur sighed. ‘Most of the bad loans the bank made were in his department.’

  ‘What about Harpa Einarsdóttir?’ Árni asked.

  ‘I didn’t know her well; she left the bank just after I arrived,’ Gudmundur replied. ‘She worked with Gabríel Örn. I think she was his girlfriend. She had a good reputation within the firm, but she was too young. Too optimistic. No sense of what might go wrong.’

  ‘Was there any connection between them and Óskar?’ Árni asked.

  ‘Well, yes, obviously. Gabríel Örn was in charge of the leveraged lending group which was an important department. I’m sure that he and Óskar knew each other well. I have no idea about the relationship between Harpa and Óskar, but once again she was a fairly senior executive. And Óskar used to socialize with his staff. You must have read all about the parties in the newspapers.’

  Even Magnus was aware that the Icelandic press had had a great time describing the excesses of the bankers, Óskar prominent among them: the parties, the private jets, the apartments in New York and London. To Magnus’s jaundiced eye it seemed nothing beyond the regular corporate excesses which you would expect in the boardrooms of America. It might not be in the Icelandic tradition, but it was certainly in the tradition of Wall Street.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Magnus asked Árni once they had left the CEO’s office. ‘Who the hell is Gabríel Örn?’

  ‘A banker who killed himself in January, a few months before you arrived in Iceland. Harpa was his ex-girlfriend who used to work for him. I interviewed her afterwards.’

  ‘Why did he kill himself?’

  ‘We’re not absolutely sure. He only left a brief text message as a suicide note. But he was responsible for bankrupting a bank. A few bad days at work, to put it mildly.’

  ‘And do you think there is a connection with Óskar’s murder?’

  ‘Um, no.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Árni waited for the lift doors to close behind them as they headed down to the lobby.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said.

  Magnus looked at him closely. He didn’t believe him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  EMILÍA GUNNARSDÓTTIR HAD poise. She was in her mid-thirties, slim, with her dark hair tied back. She was wearing an elegant black trouser suit and expensive but discreet gold adorned her ears and neck.

  The offices of OBG Investments took up one floor of a five-storey building a hundred metres along Borgartún from the Ódinsbanki headquarters. Magnus saw from the directory in the lobby that the other occupants were firms of lawyers and accountants, plus the odd enigmatic financial company, like OBG itself. It was obvious when they had reached OBG’s floor: the reception area was dominated by a life-size sculpture in bronze of a Viking in full warrior gear riding a Harley Davidson.

  Emilía led Magnus and Árni through to her office: thick white carpet, black leather armchairs and sofa, a broad black desk, uncluttered with papers, but bearing a sleek computer screen. The contrast with Gudmundur’s office was stark. ‘I am very sorry about your brother,’ Magnus began.

  For a moment, a second or so, the poise cracked. But then with a purse of the lips it was back. ‘Thank you,’ was all Emilía said. ‘Sit down. I hope you don’t mind waiting a couple of minutes. I’ve asked my lawyer to be present. She works in this building so she won’t be long.’

  Magnus was surprised. ‘I don’t think there’s a need for a lawyer, Emilía. You are not a suspect.’ Or not yet, he thought. Asking for a lawyer this early in proceedings certainly raised alarm bells.

  ‘Not for this crime, perhaps. But don’t forget that our company is under investigation.’

  ‘I’m not interested in the Special Prosecutor’s case,’ Magnus said. ‘I just want to find out more about your brother.’

  ‘Which I will tell you once my lawyer is here. Would you like some coffee?’

  Just then the door opened and a woman came in.

  A woman whom Magnus recognized. He couldn’t keep the shock from registering on his face. The woman seemed just as surprised herself.

  ‘This is Sigurbjörg Vilhjálmsdóttir, my lawyer,’ Emilía said. ‘But it seems that you know each other already.’

  There was a brief pause as both Magnus and the lawyer struggled for something to say. ‘Yes,’ Magnus said, eventually, clearing his throat. ‘We do know each other. Sigurbjörg is my cousin.’ He hesitated and then stepped forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Emilía said, unsurprised at the connection. This was Reykjavík, after all. But she could tell there was something strained between them, although she could not possibly know what. ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t advise me on this matter, Sigurbjörg?’

  ‘No,’ said Sigurbjörg. ‘No, there will be no problem.’

  ‘We aren’t close,’ said Magnus, and then regretted it. While true, it sounded unnecessarily rude.

  ‘OK,’ said Emilía. ‘Well. Let’s begin, shall we?’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about Óskar?’ Magnus asked. Árni pulled out his notebook, a look of intense concentration on his face as he prepared himself for more financial gobbledygook.

  ‘He was a very special person.’ Emilía hesitated. It was as if the simple question threatened to unleash emotion, which had been Magnus’s intention. But once again she was back in complete control in an instant. ‘Very bright. Energetic. Funny. People liked him. People loved him. Especially the people who worked for him.’

  ‘What about his enemies?’

  ‘He didn’t have any enemies.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Emilía. How could someone like him not have enemies?’

  Irritation flared in Emilía’s eyes. She didn’t like being contradicted.

  ‘Well, there were business rivals, I suppose. But they didn’t hate him. The press loved to gossip about him, but they needed him for their copy. During the demonstrations some of the speakers were asking for his head, but they didn’t really know him.’

  ‘Clients of the bank? Depositors? Shareholders? A lot of people must have lost money when Ódinsbanki was nationalized.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But I don’t think most people blamed my brother. All the Icelandic banks collapsed: Ódinsbanki was probably the best run of all of them.’

  ‘What about his personal life? His wife? Or rather ex-wife?’

  ‘Kamilla? She was devastated when they broke up. He was having an affair and she found out about it. But that was five years ago. More. They’ve got along fairly well since then. He sees the children regularly, or did until this year when he was holed up in London.’

  ‘He had a Russian girlfriend? Tanya Prokhorova, a Russian model.’

  Emilía shuddered. ‘She may have been a model but she certainly wasn’t dumb. Óskar was besotted with her. She was cool and beautiful and played him along. I never liked her. And then of course she dumped him when she realized that he wasn’t quite as rich as she thought he was. He was much better off with Claudia.
’

  ‘The Venezuelan?’

  ‘Yes. She is much more like him. She has money from her own divorce. She’s actually a year older than him, although she wouldn’t want anyone else to know that. Óskar was much more relaxed around her. I only met her twice, in London, but she was good for him.’

  ‘Did he know many Russians? Apart from Tanya?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Emilía said. ‘He probably met friends of hers socially.’

  ‘What about clients of the bank?’

  Sigurbjörg, the lawyer, coughed.

  Emilía glanced at her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on clients of the bank.’

  ‘Were there any Russian clients that Óskar dealt with personally?’

  Emilía didn’t answer.

  Magnus persisted. ‘Any money laundering? Russian businessmen who lost money dealing with Ódinsbanki?’

  Sigurbjörg interrupted. ‘These are sensitive issues. The Special Prosecutor is examining the files of all the bank’s customers. Emilía doesn’t want to prejudice that examination.’

  Magnus ignored her. ‘Your brother is dead, Emilía. Someone killed him. I want to help the British police find out who that person was. We need to know if there was a Russian connection, especially one via Iceland.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sigurbjörg,’ Emilía said. ‘There were no Russian clients. Maybe one or two small ones, but nothing major. Óskar didn’t trust them, it was as simple as that. It was a bank rule: no Russian exposure.’

  ‘Could Tanya have introduced him to some dodgy businessmen looking for places to park money?’

  ‘Possibly. Not that I know of. And I would rather doubt it. Those are exactly the kind of people that Óskar would have avoided. I said he was besotted with Tanya, but he never really trusted her.’

  ‘OK.’ Magnus was half convinced. ‘And your family? Any tensions there?’

  ‘Oh, Óskar was the golden boy as far as our parents were concerned.’ Emilía said this without rancour or jealousy.

  ‘Even after the kreppa struck?’

  ‘Even then. I have another brother and a sister. My brother is pretty tense about suddenly realizing that he isn’t as rich as he thought he was. But he basically idolizes Óskar.’ She swallowed, realizing her mistake. ‘I mean idolized.’