66 Degrees North

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Hello, Benni!’

  Benedikt paused and straightened up. ‘Hello, Halli.’

  ‘What are you bothering to get the hay in for? I thought you’d sold the place?’

  ‘The new owner will need to feed his sheep this winter just like we do.’

  ‘Huh. He’s from Laxárdalur, isn’t he? Can’t he bring his own hay?’

  Benedikt shrugged at the stupidity of the remark and made as if to go back to work.

  ‘I hear your mother has bought the clothes store in town?’ Hallgrímur said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you will be selling ladies’ underwear?’

  ‘I’m going to school in Reykjavík. The Menntaskóli.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a waste of time, isn’t it? But I suppose your mother won’t need you at home any more once she sells the farm.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Well,’ Hallgrímur said. ‘When you get to Reykjavík, remember what I told you.’ He glanced at Hildur, who looked away. ‘In the church, when we were kids. Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Benedikt. ‘I remember very well.’

  ‘And you will keep your word?’

  ‘I always keep my word.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hallgrímur. He kicked his horse on.

  ‘Oh, Halli,’ said Benedikt.

  Hallgrímur paused. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember what I said in the church?’

  Hallgrímur frowned. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  Benedikt smiled and went back to his scything.

  Hallgrímur hesitated and then rode off. Hildur approached her brother. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Was it something to do with Dad?’

  ‘Really, Hildur, you don’t want to know.’

  Hildur did want to know, but she knew there was no point in pushing her brother. He was stubborn in his own way.

  ‘I’m glad that boy won’t be our neighbour any more,’ she said.

  ‘So am I,’ said Benedikt. ‘So am I.’

  Sunday, 20 September 2009

  Magnus put the cup of coffee down on the nightstand inches from Ingileif’s head and climbed into bed beside her. As he sipped from his own mug, he studied her back. Her fair hair was spread over the pillow and her shoulders were moving up and down in a tiny shallow rhythm. She had a cluster of faded freckles above one shoulder blade that formed the shape of a crescent – he had never noticed them before. He felt an urge to lean over and run his hand down her spine, but he didn’t want to disturb her.

  He smiled. He was lucky to wake up next to someone like her.

  As though she could feel his eyes upon her, Ingileif stiffened, grunted and rolled over, blinking.

  ‘What time is it?’ she said.

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘That’s a bit early for a Sunday, isn’t it?’

  ‘I need to get going soon. I’ve got to go back up to Grundarfjördur.’

  Ingileif sat up, her back against the pillow, and sipped her coffee. ‘Again?’

  ‘Now we know Harpa saw Óskar in London over the summer it’s all the more important to check up on her boyfriend. If he’s there. I’ll call the police up there to make sure he’s at home before I set off.’

  ‘Can I come? We could go for a walk afterwards. I could see Bjarnarhöfn, if only from a distance. Or we could go talk to Unnur about Benedikt Jóhannesson. If you want to, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Oh, come on. You supported me last spring when I was trying to come to terms with what I learned about my father’s death. I’d like to do the same for you.’

  The idea of going anywhere near Bjarnarhöfn again didn’t thrill Magnus. Ingileif may be right, perhaps it would be more bearable if she accompanied him.

  ‘You have to promise to leave me alone to interview Björn.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Magnus smiled. ‘All right. Let me check with the Grundarfjördur police and then we’ll go.’

  The sun was shining out of a pale blue sky as they drove north. Ingileif put a Beethoven symphony on the car’s CD system, great music for driving through the Icelandic countryside, she said. She was right. Magnus had little knowledge of classical music, but Ingileif was a good guide.

  Páll, the constable in Grundarfjördur, had confirmed that although there were no lights on in the house, Björn’s motorbike was in his driveway as was his pickup truck. Magnus asked the constable to keep a discreet watch on the house until he got there. If Björn left home, Magnus wanted to know where he was going.

  As they descended the north side of the mountain pass down towards Breidafjördur, Magnus pointed out the Berserkjahraun and Bjarnarhöfn.

  ‘Is that a little church there, down by the sea?’ Ingileif asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s tiny,’ Magnus said. ‘Not much more than a hut.’

  ‘It’s cute. And why is it called Bjarnarhöfn?’

  ‘It’s named for Björn the Easterner,’ Magnus said. ‘The son of Ketill Flat Nose, and the first settler in the area.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Ingileif. ‘But it’s a long time since I’ve read the Saga of the People of Eyri.’

  Ingileif had studied Icelandic Literature at university, and knew the sagas almost as well as Magnus. ‘And this is where the Swedish berserkers cut their path?’

  ‘Yes. You can still see the cairn where they were buried.’

  ‘Cool. Let’s stop there on the way back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Magnus.

  Ingileif detected the note of caution in his voice. ‘Does your grandfather still live at the farm?’

  ‘He does. My uncle Kolbeinn farms the place now, but my cousin said that Grandpa still lives there with Grandma.’

  ‘And you don’t want to bump into him?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  They drove on to Grundarfjördur. Magnus pulled over on the shore of the sheltered fjord a kilometre outside town and called Constable Páll. The sun glimmered off the quiet grey waters of the sheltered fjord.

  Páll answered on the first ring. Apparently Björn had driven his pickup truck down to the harbour, and was working on a boat down there. Magnus drove through town and pulled up outside the police station, which was only a few metres away from the harbour. Páll was waiting for him, in uniform.

  Magnus introduced Ingileif. ‘I’ll just go for a walk around town,’ she said. ‘Give me a call when you’ve finished.’

  Magnus was glad to have the constable with him. He was still in a legal limbo-land, since he hadn’t yet graduated from the police college, and he wanted Páll to take notes. If Björn gave them any useful evidence, he didn’t want it questioned by a defence lawyer.

  Páll was very happy to oblige.

  There were a few boats of various sizes in the harbour. For a small town it had some serious fishing industry – several large buildings for processing the fish, a market, storage sheds and numerous empty pallets guarded by fork-lift trucks.

  And the whole thing was watched over by the tower of rock that was Kirkjufell. In Iceland it was difficult to believe that such features were just random movements of geology. Icelandic mountains had personality and purpose. This church of rock completely overshadowed the white building with the little cross on a hill above the town. It was as if it provided the town’s inhabitants with not just physical shelter but spiritual strength as well.

  Páll led Magnus towards a fishing boat tied up against the quay, Bolli. ‘Hello, Siggi!’ he shouted. ‘May I come on board?’

  Two men in thick sweaters poked their heads out of the cabin. One was an overweight balding forty-five, the other was lean and in his early thirties.

  Björn, no doubt.

  Páll greeted the older man and asked if they could have a word with Björn. Björn stepped off the boat and joined them on the quay. ‘A new navigation system,’ Björn said. ‘I was just helping Siggi install it, but it k
eeps crashing. I swear these days you need to know as much about computers as about engines to keep a boat running.’

  They sat on a wall, a short distance from the boat, the captain peering at them curiously from the cabin window. A couple of seagulls landed on the quay a few feet away, hoping for scraps.

  ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘We want to ask you some questions about Gabríel Örn Bergsson and Harpa Einarsdóttir.’

  ‘Harpa told me you had been talking to her,’ Björn said.

  ‘Oh, have you seen her recently?’

  ‘Yes. I went down to Reykjavík a couple of days ago. You left her quite upset.’

  ‘It’s unavoidable in these circumstances,’ Magnus said. ‘Are you and she together?’

  ‘You could say that. I go down to see her whenever I can. She comes up here sometimes. I like her. I like her a lot.’

  ‘Harpa didn’t mention that you and she still had a relationship.’

  Björn shrugged. ‘It’s not a secret. As I said, she was upset. You probably didn’t ask her.’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ Magnus admitted. But he still had the impression Harpa had been trying to hide it. ‘Had you two met before the night Gabríel Örn died?’

  ‘No. We first met at the demo that afternoon. I had come down from Grundarfjördur for it specially. I had been to one of the Saturday protests before Christmas and, well, I thought it was important to be there. I wanted to be heard. I wanted the government to resign.’

  ‘Tell me about that evening.’

  Björn’s story tallied pretty closely with Harpa’s. He was vague on the details, arguing quite reasonably that the whole thing had happened nine months before. Magnus took him backwards and forwards over the same ground and tried to trip him up.

  Nothing.

  So Magnus changed the subject. ‘Has Harpa told you about Óskar Gunnarsson?’

  ‘Yes,’ Björn said. ‘She said you thought she was linked in some way to his murder.’

  ‘We were just asking questions.’

  ‘You should be careful how you ask them,’ Björn said. ‘Harpa has never got over Gabríel Örn’s suicide. From what she tells me about him the man was a jerk, but I think in some ways that makes it worse for her. She feels guilty about going out with him, about breaking it off. She’s a mess. Your questions don’t help.’

  ‘Do you think she had anything else to feel guilty about?’

  ‘No,’ said Björn calmly.

  ‘Had you ever met Óskar?’

  ‘No,’ said Björn.

  ‘Has Harpa told you anything about her relations with him?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think there were any.’

  Magnus took out a photograph of Óskar. ‘Do you know who this is?’

  ‘That’s him, isn’t it? I’ve seen his picture in the paper.’

  ‘That’s right. Now, does he remind you of anyone?’

  Björn studied the picture. ‘Looks a bit like Hugh Grant perhaps. Darker hair.’

  ‘No. Someone you know.’

  Björn shook his head.

  ‘Markús.’

  Björn looked at Magnus in surprise. ‘What? Harpa’s Markús?’ He studied the picture more closely. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘What do you mean, didn’t I know? Know what? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that Óskar was Markús’s father.’

  ‘That is ridiculous.’

  ‘Harpa confirmed it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Björn studied the photograph more carefully.

  ‘She didn’t tell you then?’ Magnus said.

  ‘I still don’t believe you.’

  ‘Did she say who the father was?’

  ‘No. I asked her once, she didn’t want to answer, and so I never asked her again. It was none of my business.’ He handed the photograph back to Magnus. ‘It’s still none of my business.’

  Magnus had to admire Björn’s composure. A couple of fishermen strolled past, nodded at Björn and Páll, and stared at Magnus, the stranger from out of town, with undisguised curiosity.

  ‘Did you know that Harpa travelled to London recently?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Yes. A couple of months back. Just for a few days.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘She said she needed a break.’

  ‘How could she afford it?’

  Björn shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She used to be a banker. She’s probably got savings. It’s true she’s usually careful with money, but she deserved a treat.’

  ‘Did she tell you she saw Óskar?’

  ‘No,’ said Björn.

  ‘Are you jealous?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Of course I’m not jealous!’ Björn said. ‘Look. If there’s one person in this world I trust, it’s Harpa. Who she saw before she met me is none of my business. I had no idea that Óskar was Markús’s father, and frankly I still don’t believe you. But if he was, maybe Harpa went to see him, I don’t know. And if she did, I’m not surprised she kept it a secret from me.’

  ‘Does it make you angry that Harpa keeps secrets from you?’

  Björn stared hard at Magnus. His blue eyes were remarkably bright. And angry. But Magnus got the impression it was with him, not with Harpa. ‘No.’

  ‘Björn. Where were you on Tuesday night?’

  ‘Let me guess. Was that when Óskar was killed?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I was out at sea that day. Got back about seven. A good catch, lots of mackerel. Helped unload and clean up. Came home.’

  ‘And Wednesday morning?’

  ‘Went out again, early in the morning. Same boat. The Kría. She’s out right now, but she’ll be back later this afternoon. One of the regular crew had flu. Gústi is the skipper. Páll knows him.’ He nodded to the constable. ‘He can check with the crew. And actually on Tuesday night I went to the fishing company’s office to pick up some pay they owed me. You can ask Sóley, she’ll tell you. In fact they probably have it written down.’

  He stared at Magnus. ‘So I wasn’t in London shooting bankers.’

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’

  Magnus and Páll were walking back along the quayside towards the police station.

  ‘He’s a cool customer,’ Magnus said. ‘It’s hard to say whether he’s telling the truth. If he wanted to lie, he could do it well, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll check out his alibi,’ said Páll. ‘But I bet it will stand up. Which means he can’t have shot that banker.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Magnus. ‘But be thorough. In a small town like this, people could easily cover for their friends.’

  ‘Gústi is an honest man,’ said Páll. ‘In fact, I’d have to say that Björn has a very good reputation here.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Magnus said. ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘Quite well. As you say, this is a small town. He had his own boat, the Lundi. Bought it off his uncle. He was very successful, bought up more quotas, worked long hours. But he did it all on borrowed money, and when the kreppa came he had to sell. Since then he’s been crewing on other people’s boats whenever he can.’

  ‘Have you seen Harpa around?’

  ‘I think so. Curly dark hair? About one eighty high?’

  Magnus was only just getting used to thinking metric again. Heights still confused him, but that sounded about right. ‘That’s her.’

  ‘She’s been here a couple of times.’

  ‘Does Björn ever get into trouble?’

  ‘No. Not here at any rate. I think he used to go down to Reykjavík to party every now and then. He stays with his brother Gulli down there.’

  They walked on.

  ‘Magnús?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t imagine Björn murdering anyone.’

  Magnus paused and looked at the constable. He had a bit of a belly and an im
posing moustache, but he had kind eyes. And they were troubled.

  ‘Is Björn a friend of yours?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘No. Not exactly. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Did you have to tell him about his girlfriend’s son? I mean that the father was a banker? What does that really have to do with the police? Isn’t that a secret she has a right to keep from her boyfriend if she wants to?’

  Magnus felt a flash of irritation. In a town like this, with a population of a thousand people, two thousand max, the loyalty of the local cop was more likely to be with his buddies than with a detective parachuted in from the big city.

  But then Magnus needed Páll.

  ‘Murder is always painful. To the victims, to their friends and family, obviously, to all kinds of other people. Murder investigations hurt witnesses. I know you like Björn, and I hear what you say about him being a good guy. But we’ve just got to ask the questions. Every now and then we piss people off, good people. Although, unlike you, I’m not convinced Björn fits into that category.’

  Páll grunted.

  They got to their vehicles, Magnus’s Range Rover parked next to Páll’s police car outside the wooden police station.

  Ingileif was waiting. She had that air of barely suppressed excitement that Magnus knew well.

  ‘Good interview?’ she asked.

  ‘OK, I guess,’ said Magnus. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Páll, isn’t it?’ said Ingileif, giving the constable her best smile.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I assume the town library isn’t open on Sundays?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know the librarian?’

  ‘Yes. She’s my wife’s cousin.’

  ‘Is there any chance that you could get her to open it up for us?’

  Páll glanced at Magnus. ‘Why?’

  Ingileif looked at Magnus, her eyes shining. ‘When I was wandering around, I remembered something. A Benedikt Jóhannesson short story. I think it’s called something like “The Slip”. I need to show it to you.’

  ‘Is this police business?’ Páll asked Magnus.

  ‘No,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Of course it is!’ said Ingileif. ‘It’s about a murder. At Búland’s Head, fifty years ago.’