66 Degrees North

by Michael Ridpath

  After the detective had left, Zak had seemed tense. Sophie should probably tell their house mates about the visit: make sure the house was clean of anything incriminating if the police decided to come back and search the place.

  Now, to work. Fortified with new resolve, she headed for the front door, only to see it open.

  ‘Zak? What are you doing back here?’

  He looked worried. ‘I thought you were going to the library,’ he said.

  ‘I am. What’s up?’

  He pushed past her on his way to his room. ‘It’s Mum. I just got a call from Dad. She’s getting worse.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Sophie, following him. She knew all about his mother’s cancer. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I’m going back to Iceland,’ Zak said, pulling a bag out of his wardrobe.

  ‘When? Now?’

  ‘Yeah. I might get a flight today if I hurry.’

  ‘Is it that bad? I mean, is this, like…’ Sophie couldn’t bring herself to say ‘the end’.

  ‘I don’t know, Soph, I really don’t know. It might be. I’ve got to get home.’

  He was looking away from her as he said this.

  ‘Come here,’ said Sophie, holding out her arms. He ignored her. ‘Come on.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, he stood up and let her hug him. Sophie was mildly offended as he pushed her away. Sometimes he just put up barriers and she didn’t like it. But how could she know what it was like to have your mother die?

  She watched him pack. The silence was awkward. She was aware that he really didn’t want to talk about his mother. ‘They reckon there’s a chance Lister’s going to make it after all,’ she said. ‘I just heard it on the radio.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Zak.

  ‘You don’t really mean that!’ said Sophie, shocked. ‘I know he called you all a bunch of terrorists, but he’s not a bad man.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Zak. ‘There’s a whole country that he bankrupted that might disagree.’

  Sophie took a deep breath. She had never seen Zak so tense. She wanted so badly to reach out and comfort him.

  The policewoman’s visit troubled her. She considered asking him about it again, but rejected the idea. It would only upset him more. She watched helplessly as he finished his packing. He was very quick. She felt an irrational dread overwhelm her, as though he were leaving her for good.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know. I won’t know until I see how bad she really is.’

  ‘Well, let me know once you see her. Have you told the uni?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll do that later. Actually, could you tell McGregor for me? I’ll talk to him myself in the next day or two.’

  Dr McGregor was head of the Politics Faculty.

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  Ten minutes later Zak was gone. Sophie sat at the kitchen table and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DÍSA SENT HARPA home. The fresh air invigorated her as she hurried along the shore of the bay. To her right a small dark cloud was rolling over the Hallgrímskirkja and unloading its contents on the city centre. An easterly breeze was blowing the cloud towards Seltjarnarnes.

  She played over what she would say to Björn. She had to call him. It was a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.

  She beat the cloud home by a couple of minutes, made herself a cup of coffee and dialled Björn’s number. She hoped he wasn’t out at sea, she needed to get this over and done with.

  He answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ He sounded distracted.

  ‘Björn, I… I need to talk to you.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘You remember the kid who was with us that night in Sindri’s flat? A boy named Frikki?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember him.’

  ‘Well he came into the bakery the other day, with his girlfriend. And then they came back again today. He seems to think that Sindri is behind Óskar’s death. And the shooting of the British Chancellor of the Exchequer.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why?’

  ‘He says that Sindri was talking about taking real action against the bankers and against the people who caused the kreppa.’

  ‘Yes, but he was drunk. We all were.’

  Harpa swallowed. ‘And he said that you might be involved.’

  ‘Me? How? They were shot abroad, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harpa. ‘But he said, or rather his girlfriend said, that you might have flown over to London and France when you told me you were going out on a fishing boat.’

  ‘Oh, Harpa, that’s just ridiculous!’

  And Harpa agreed. When she said it out loud it did sound ridiculous. ‘That’s what I told them.’

  ‘Good. They’re not going to go to the police or anything, are they?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But…’

  ‘But what?’

  Harpa took a deep breath. Until now she hadn’t voiced aloud her own distrust of Björn. She had never shown any mistrust of him. Ever. But now she had to.

  ‘Björn. Why did you have your passport with you when you came down to see me last week?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why did you have your passport? I saw it. In your jacket pocket.’

  ‘You’re not telling me you believe them?’

  ‘No. I just want to know about your passport.’

  ‘Well. Um. I needed it.’

  ‘To go abroad?’

  ‘No. For identification purposes. The following morning I had an appointment to see a bank in Reykjavík about a loan to buy a boat.’ His voice was speeding up and gaining in confidence.

  Just as if he had stumbled on a good story made up on the spot.

  ‘Which bank?’

  ‘Um. Kaupthing.’

  ‘But they don’t ask for passport ID, do they?’

  ‘No, I thought it was strange. New rules, probably. Tightening up.’

  This sounded all wrong to Harpa. ‘So then you went out on a boat for the next few days?’

  ‘Yes. I told you.’

  ‘Whose boat?’

  ‘Hey, Harpa, I don’t need to justify myself to you. Surely you don’t believe this kid, do you? Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Björn.’

  ‘What is this, Harpa?’ Anger was rising in his voice.

  ‘OK,’ said Harpa. ‘OK. I’ll ask you this question once and then I’ll shut up. Were you involved in the shooting of Óskar? And Julian Lister?’

  Silence.

  ‘Björn?’

  ‘No. No Harpa, I was not. I didn’t shoot either of them. Don’t you believe me?’

  Harpa hung up.

  Her phone rang. She didn’t answer it. She had slumped to the floor of the kitchen, her back against a cupboard and she was sobbing.

  No. She didn’t believe him.

  She was still sitting there ten minutes later when the door opened.

  ‘Harpa?’

  ‘Mummy?’

  She looked up to see her father and her son staring at her, both of them full of concern.

  ‘Mummy, did you fall over?’

  Harpa began to pull herself to her feet. Einar gave her his hand. Markús ran to her and gave her a hug. It felt good.

  Einar gently suggested the boy go into the living room to watch TV.

  ‘Harpa, what’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Dad. Dad, I’m in such trouble.’

  ‘Come here.’ He enveloped her in his strong fisherman’s arms. His chest was broad and he smelled of tobacco. Usually she hated the smell of cigarettes, but on him it reminded her of her child-hood, the joy of meeting him back from the sea. Then the tobacco had been mixed with fish. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’ He smiled. ‘On a chair, not the floor.’

  Harpa sat at the kitchen table. She wanted to talk, she was desperate to talk. And now she no longer had Björn to talk to. What the h
ell? So she told him.

  She started with the demonstration and meeting up in Sindri’s flat. She told him about Frikki’s suspicions that Sindri and Björn were responsible for the shooting of Óskar and Julian Lister. She told him about Björn’s denial and how she didn’t believe it.

  And then, because otherwise the whole story didn’t make sense, and because it was such a relief to unburden herself, she told him about luring out Gabríel Örn that night, and about how he died. She told him everything, except the relationship between her and Óskar and between his grandson and the banker.

  ‘Oh, my poor love,’ he said, clasping her hand in his. ‘I thought something had happened last January. I had no idea it was this bad.’

  ‘I know. Can you forgive me?’ She looked deep into those strong hard blue eyes. It was a lot to ask her father. He had always loved her, she knew that, but he had high standards for his daughter and he had always been quick to chastise her if she failed him. That was one of the reasons for her success at school and university and then as a banker, the main reason: she didn’t want to disappoint him.

  And now she was telling him she had killed someone.

  The blue eyes crinkled. ‘Forgive you for what? It was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill him, did you? And the bastard deserved a good thrashing – I should have done it myself.’

  ‘But he died, Dad, he died!’

  ‘Yes, well. I won’t say he deserved it. But I will say it was not your fault. It was a horrible accident. You must remember that.’ He gripped her hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said smiling, the relief running through her. She knew it was only temporary, but it did feel very good to have the support of her father. ‘But what should I do now?’

  ‘Well. I wouldn’t tell your mother.’

  ‘No,’ said Harpa. Her mother was a much stricter moralist than her father. That really would be pushing it. ‘But I’m worried, Dad. What if Frikki is right? What if there is another banker about to be shot? I could never live with myself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Einar muttered. ‘Perhaps the bastards do deserve it. And anyway, you’re not responsible.’

  ‘If I don’t say anything, I am,’ Harpa said.

  ‘So what are you thinking of doing? Going to the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Harpa. They’ll find out about the whole Gabríel Örn business. You’ll end up in jail. I don’t want my only daughter going to jail, especially for something that isn’t her fault. And what about Markús? I mean we would look after him, but he needs his mother.’

  ‘I know,’ said Harpa. A tear leaked out of her eye again. And another one.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Einar spoke. ‘I have an idea,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You could just be imagining all this. Björn might be telling the truth. About being out fishing when those men were shot.’

  ‘But what about the passport? I’m convinced he was lying about that.’

  Einar shrugged. ‘Maybe. But we can check up on the fishing boat easily enough. I know the harbourmaster at Grundarfjördur. He would know whether Björn was out, or he would know who to ask to find out.’

  Harpa brightened. Maybe, just maybe, Björn was telling the truth. Suddenly the prospect, which had seemed so distant a moment ago, seemed possible. ‘Could you go up there and talk to him?’

  ‘No need to do that. I can phone him. Now what precise days are we talking about?’

  ‘OK,’ Harpa said. She stood up to look at the calendar on the wall. ‘Óskar was shot on the night of Tuesday the fifteenth. And Julian Lister was yesterday, of course.’

  ‘Did you speak to Björn yesterday?’

  ‘No. Until this evening, the last time I spoke to him was when he was down here last week. That was last Thursday. I thought he had been out at sea since then.’

  ‘OK. I’ll check. And once we have found out whether Björn is telling the truth, then we can figure out what to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.’

  Sindri lit another cigarette and stared again at the blank screen of his computer. There were sheets of paper covered with words all around the rickety table he used as a desk, but the words were not new.

  He hadn’t written anything in a week. Which was hardly surprising. He desperately wanted to put himself out of his misery and go to the Grand Rokk. But now more than ever he had to keep a clear head.

  The doorbell rang. He took a quick puff of his cigarette and braced himself. The police again, most likely. He knew they would be coming back.

  But when he opened the door, it was his sister-in-law who was standing there.

  Sindri grinned. ‘Freyja! Come in, come in!’

  He kissed her on the cheek and led her into his flat.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I’m in the middle of working. Can I get you some coffee?’

  ‘I’d love some.’

  Freyja was dressed as a city girl in a black trouser suit, and her blonde curly hair was pulled back fiercely in a ponytail. But her cheeks had the pink bloom of the fells.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming. What brings you to Reykjavík?’

  ‘We got an offer for the farm over the weekend,’ said Freyja. ‘A good one. It’s from the cousin of a neighbour. He’s a farmer’s son, and he wants to own his own place. Remarkably, he seems to have enough cash to buy it.’

  Sindri frowned. ‘I suppose that’s good news. Are you going to take it?’

  ‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘It’s the only serious offer we’ve received. And it’s also the only way we have of paying off the debt.’

  ‘You could tell the bank to stuff it,’ said Sindri. ‘Stay on the farm. Let them try to evict you. You know how difficult the government is making it for banks to take possession of property these days.’

  ‘Those are just temporary measures,’ Freyja said. ‘The debt isn’t going to go away until I pay it off. This way I pay it off and we all get on with our lives.’

  They sat in silence for a moment staring at their coffee. Sindri puffed at his cigarette. It was the farm of his childhood they were talking about, a property that had first been bought by his great-grandfather a century before. But that wasn’t what got to him. It was Freyja and her children. His brother Matti’s broken family.

  ‘So you’re moving to Reykjavík?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘I need to work.’

  ‘Have you been to see your brother?’ Sindri asked, remembering that he had offered Freyja a job.

  ‘Yes. But nothing doing. Apparently he had to fire three people last week, so he can’t be seen to be taking someone new on. Like me.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Ask around. That’s why I’m here. Do you know anyone who might be looking to hire someone?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sindri. He didn’t have to think very hard. A number of his friends who survived from casual temporary jobs were looking. He was lucky he still had some of the royalties from his book left, and the authors’ stipend that the Ministry of Education, Science and Culture in Iceland was still paying out to writers.

  ‘I know I don’t have any direct qualifications,’ Freyja said. ‘But I can work hard. I’m strong. I’m good with figures. I’m honest.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Sindri, smiling. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment. But I just don’t think there is anything out there.’

  ‘I could be a waitress. Shop assistant. Cleaner, even.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Sindri shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of guy you need to talk to about the world of work.’

  ‘No,’ said Freyja, and Sindri thought he caught a touch of contempt in the glance she gave him.

  ‘Where will you live?’

  Freyja sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can sleep on my floor if you like. All of you.’

  Freyja laughed as she glanced around the mess and g
rime of the flat. ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

  The laughter died. They both knew it might.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t buy the farm,’ Sindri said. And he meant it. He would have done if he could, it would have been the least he could do to make up for his brother’s actions. ‘I just don’t have the money.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Freyja. ‘Not that I’d expect you to do anything like that. But I sometimes wonder…’

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘What people like you do all day.’

  ‘I’m writing a novel,’ Sindri said. ‘It’s a reworking of Independent People by Halldór Laxness for the twenty-first century. I’m finding it kind of tough.’

  ‘You call that kind of tough?’ said Freyja, her eyes alight. ‘Some of us have worked all our lives. Some of us have other people to feed. I sometimes wish people like you would get up off your fat arses and do something.’

  Sindri’s cheeks burned. He felt like he had been slapped. Anger fought with shame and shame won.

  Freyja put her face in her hands. Sindri kept quiet. She looked up. Smiled thinly. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Sindri. I just try so hard not to let all this get on top of me. And I succeed, really I do. I never shout at anyone, not the bank, not my kids, not even the stupid sheep. Of course the person I would really like to shout at is Matti. But I can’t do that.’

  She looked Sindri straight in the eye. ‘So I shout at you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I probably deserve it,’ said Sindri. He reached over and touched her hand. ‘I’ll keep my ears open. There’s a chance I might hear something about somewhere cheap to live.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Freyja. ‘Anyway, I must go. I’m talking to everyone I know in Reykjavík. Something will turn up.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ said Sindri. But he wasn’t.

  Long after Freyja had left, Sindri sat at the small dining table staring up at his painting of Bjartur carrying his sick daughter across the moor.