‘Thanks, Vigdís.’
While Vigdís made some calls to rustle up the surveillance video, Magnus composed an e-mail to one of his buddies in the Homicide Unit in Boston, asking to check with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services for immigration information for July 1996. Then he called Records.
Árni breezed in. ‘Morning, Magnús. Good weekend? All quiet here?’
‘Talk to Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘You’ve got some work to do.’
Ísak popped the toast out of the toaster, and spread on butter and marmalade. It was an English habit that was growing on him. The house off the Mile End Road which he shared with four other students ran on toast. And instant coffee. The kettle boiled and Ísak made himself a cup.
‘Hey.’
He turned to see his girlfriend Sophie slope into the small kitchen in pyjama bottoms and an old Save Darfur T-shirt.
‘I thought you didn’t have any lectures until twelve?’
‘I decided I really have to go to the library,’ she said. ‘I can’t put it off any longer.’ She perched herself on his lap and kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and kissed him again, deeper.
Ísak smiled and let his hand brush over her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
She left it there for a moment, but then she extricated herself and stood up. ‘No. Discipline. I need discipline.’ She opened the cupboard and started rummaging around, looking for bread. Ísak had finished off the loaf. ‘Do you want another slice of toast, Zak?’
‘Yeah, OK. Thanks.’
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Sophie. The bell rang again. ‘All right, all right. You’ll wake everyone up,’ she complained, but in a voice too quiet for whoever was outside to hear.
Ísak heard the door open.
‘Police,’ an authoritative female voice said. ‘Detective Sergeant Piper from Kensington CID. Is Ísak Samúelsson here?’
Ísak tensed.
‘Er. I don’t know,’ said Sophie, taken aback.
‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ Ísak said, moving into the hallway. ‘Come in.’ He led the detective into the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Can I make you some coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ Sergeant Piper said, taking the chair Sophie had been occupying.
Sophie sat down next to her and scowled.
‘What is this about?’ Ísak asked, as coolly as he could.
‘Do you mind if I talk to Ísak alone?’ Piper said to Sophie.
‘I bloody well do,’ said Sophie, suddenly waking up. ‘Like, where do you get off? This is our kitchen.’
Piper sighed.
‘It’s OK, Soph,’ said Ísak. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure it won’t take long.’
‘All right,’ said Sophie, grumpily. ‘But I want my toast.’
After she had left the room, Ísak smiled. ‘Sorry about that. We’re doing a course on European Human Rights at the moment. And Sophie is a member of Amnesty. She gets excited about that kind of thing.’
‘Breakfast is important,’ said Piper with a smile. ‘I’d like to ask you about last week.’
‘I was in Reykjavík,’ said Ísak.
‘We know.’
‘This is about Óskar Gunnarsson, isn’t it?’ said Ísak. ‘My mother told me the police in Iceland had been asking about me.’
Piper asked Ísak a series of questions about what he had done the previous week. Ísak answered clearly and calmly. He had been out with some old friends from high school on Wednesday night, otherwise not much. Piper took down flight times, names and addresses.
‘Did you know Óskar Gunnarsson?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Ísak. ‘I mean I know who he was. But I’ve never met him.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Piper, leaning forward.
‘I guess I saw him at the annual Thorrablót of the Icelandic Society here in London,’ Ísak said. ‘But I didn’t talk to him.’
‘Thorrablót?’
‘It’s a winter festival. A big feast – lots of traditional food. You know, sheep’s heads, whale blubber, rams’ testicles, rotted shark. It’s a big deal for Icelanders.’
‘Sounds revolting.’
‘It’s an acquired taste. Actually, the food is usually pretty good at the London one.’
Piper seemed to be examining Ísak closely. ‘You didn’t try to deliver something to him a couple of weeks ago? The Friday before last?’
‘Deliver something?’
‘Yes. A witness saw someone matching your description going from house to house in Onslow Gardens looking for Gunnarsson’s address?’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Are you sure?’
Ísak nodded. ‘I’m absolutely sure.’
Piper waited. Neither she nor Ísak said anything for a long moment. Then she stood up. ‘OK, that’s all for now. Thank you for answering my questions.’
Ísak stood up. ‘No problem.’
‘Are you going in to college today?’
‘I’ve got a lecture in an hour or so. I’ll have to leave soon.’
Piper handed Ísak a card. ‘Well, if you do remember anything about Óskar Gunnarsson, give me a call.’
Magnus had just turned off the main road out of Reykjavík into Árbaer where the National Police College was located, when his phone rang. He picked it up.
‘Magnus, it’s Sharon.’
‘Hi. How are you doing?’
‘I just spoke to your friend Ísak.’
‘And?’
‘And he was in Reykjavík last week. He gave me some names and numbers of who he saw there. Basically he stayed at home most of the time, but went out on Wednesday night.’
‘E-mail the names to me, we’ll check them out,’ said Magnus. ‘Did he say why he came home?’
‘He said things were getting on top of him at uni, he needed to chill.’
‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Magnus. ‘It’s too convenient. Almost as if he was giving himself an alibi.’
‘Possibly,’ Sharon said. ‘There is something else.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘He fits the description we have of the courier who was looking for Gunnarsson’s house. Early twenties, five nine, broad face, blue eyes, dimple on his chin.’
‘Interesting,’ Magnus said. ‘Can you get a firm ID?’
‘I’m outside his house now. He’s got to go to a lecture pretty soon, so I’ll get a photo. Show it to our witness. She’s on the ball; if it’s him she’ll tell us.’
‘Excellent. Um… Sharon?’
‘Yes?’
Magnus took a deep breath. ‘Is there any chance you can talk to him again?’
‘I suppose so. I can grab him after he comes out, once I’ve got his photo.’
‘Could you ask him where he was yesterday? Check that he was in London.’
‘Why?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘You mean Julian Lister?’
‘Maybe,’ said Magnus
‘You think he might have shot Lister?’
‘Not really. It’s an outside possibility. You heard how unpopular Lister is in Iceland when you were over here.’
‘Have you got any evidence?’
‘No. None at all. It’s only a hunch, not even that. Please don’t mention it to anyone else. It’s just that if it turned out our student friend went to France for the weekend, that would be interesting.’
‘I’ll say.’ Sharon paused. ‘Look, if there is any chance there is an Icelandic angle, I’m going to have to tell someone.’
‘Don’t do that, Sharon. We’re not at that stage yet. Once the Icelanders start thinking the British believe they are terrorists, there will be a new cod war, believe me.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Look, there’s no evidence, no suspicion, even.’
‘But you would like me to talk to Ísak?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause on the phone and Magnus could hear Sharon sigh. ‘OK. I’ll le
t you know what he says. Oh, by the way. Turns out the Metropolitan Police had thirty million quid invested in an Icelandic bank.’
‘Oops.’
Magnus hung up and drove into the parking lot of the police college on Krókháls. It was on an industrial estate and shared the car park with a software company and a sports shop. As he turned off the engine his phone rang again. It was Vigdís.
‘Magnús, can you get back to the station?’
‘When?’
‘Now. There’s something you should see.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MAGNUS, ÁRNI AND Vigdís were crowded around Vigdís’s desk, watching her monitor. The sound was off: they didn’t want to attract Baldur’s attention unnecessarily.
Magnus had seen snatches of the protests on the news, but never more than a few seconds at a time. Austurvöllur, the square outside Parliament, was full of a seething mass of people, young and old, male and female, shouting and banging. The pots and pans were very much in evidence, as were wooden spoons, tambourines, flags and placards. The camera panned from face to face, each one flushed with varying combinations of anger, excitement and cold. Apart, that is, from those that were hidden by scarves and balaclavas.
‘Look, there’s Harpa,’ Vigdís said. Sure enough, Magnus saw her banging diligently at her saucepan. ‘And there’s Björn.’
The fisherman was only a few yards away from Harpa, yelling his head off and shaking his fist. For a second the camera focused on his face. Björn had seemed a cool customer to Magnus, but at that moment his face was contorted into a fury that verged on hatred.
‘See, they pass within a metre of each other, and they don’t recognize one another,’ said Vigdís.
It was true. Harpa moved in front of Björn, banged her saucepan and then moved on.
‘So this really was when they met?’
‘Hold on, I’ll show you.’ Vigdís fast-forwarded. In jerky movements the crowd surged, missiles were thrown at the police lines and pepper spray canisters were raised.
‘Is that you, Árni?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes.’ Vigdís paused, and they admired Árni in his black uniform, a look of determination on his face as he raised his yoghurt-splattered shield.
‘That can’t have been fun,’ Magnus said.
‘Especially not since I knew the kid who threw that skyr,’ Árni said. ‘An old girlfriend’s younger brother. I swear he recognized me.’
‘OK, we start spraying the pepper,’ Vigdís said, providing a commentary, ‘Harpa falls over and there! Björn picks her up. From here on they stick together.’
Even from the poor image it was clear from the way Harpa looked at Björn that she was taken with him.
‘All right, this is from maybe quarter of an hour later. See. There they are.’
‘Who’s that guy they are with?’ Magnus asked. Harpa and Björn were moving about together with a tall man with a grey ponytail sticking out underneath a broad-brimmed hat. The man was chatting to all around him, laughing and then shouting slogans. Magnus thought he looked vaguely familiar.
‘That is Sindri Pálsson.’
‘OK, I’ve heard of him somewhere haven’t I?’
‘He’s famous here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.
‘Everyone’s famous in Iceland.’
‘He was lead singer of the punk rock group Devastation in the early eighties. Then he became an all-round troublemaker. Serial protester. Anarchist. Wrote a book about the evils of capitalism. Heavily involved in the protests against the Kárahnjúkar dam. You know, they dammed up a valley to provide hydroelectricity for an aluminium smelter.’
‘I know,’ said Magnus, although that was barely true. He had heard of the controversial project but knew nothing of the details. Once again he felt his ignorance about his own country.
‘He tried to turn the protests violent, but the organizers wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Threw him out.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘Only drugs offences.’
‘But you have a file on him?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s one of the people we identified as capable of trying to turn the protests into a revolution. A violent revolution.’
‘And here he is making friends with Harpa and Björn,’ said Magnus.
Vigdís took Magnus through the rest of the demonstration. As light fell, so did the quality of the images. But there was no doubt that the three kept together.
Then came the tear gas. ‘This is the last image of them we have,’ said Vigdís. Björn, Harpa and Sindri were standing next to the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson. Then they turned and headed off up Hverfisgata. It was only possible to identify them by the shape of their bodies, but they were quite distinctive.
‘Wait a moment, who’s that guy?’ said Magnus. A younger man seemed to be trailing along a short distance behind.
‘No idea,’ said Vigdís. ‘We can’t really see his face. But I can look at other images, see if I can narrow him down.’
‘I bet it’s Ísak,’ Magnus said. ‘Sharon is taking a photograph of him in London now. I’ll get her to send it over.’
‘There will be one on the drivers’ licence registry,’ said Árni. ‘I’ll check.’ This database contained images of every Icelander who had a driver’s licence, and the police had access to it. Useful.
Magnus stood up straight. ‘I take it we have an address for this Sindri?’
‘Hverfisgata,’ said Vigdís. ‘Right by the Shadow District.’
‘Come on, Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘Let’s go talk to him. Árni, get working on those images.’
As they were leaving the office they passed Baldur. ‘Magnús? I thought you were at the police college?’
‘Just come from there,’ Magnus said, with a smile. ‘Got to go.’ And he and Vigdís hurried out of the building.
*
It was quiet in the bakery. Harpa looked up when the door opened. She recognized the couple who came in.
‘Hi, Frikki,’ she said warily.
‘Hello, Harpa,’ Frikki said. They examined the selection at the counter. Frikki took a kleina and his chubby girlfriend an éclair.
Frikki paid. Harpa gave him change.
Frikki hesitated. His girlfriend stared at him. ‘Did you see the news?’ Frikki said.
‘About the British Chancellor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I did.’
‘Can we talk about it?’
Harpa glanced around. There were no customers in the shop. Dísa was in the back icing a birthday cake. ‘OK,’ she said. They moved over to the table in the corner.
‘Harpa, this is Magda, my girlfriend,’ Frikki said.
‘Good morning,’ the woman said with a foreign accent, Polish probably. She smiled. Harpa nodded.
‘What do you think?’ Frikki asked. ‘About Lister?’
‘However big a bully he is, he doesn’t deserve to die,’ Harpa said.
‘No. No, course not. But, well…’ Frikki flinched as his girlfriend jerked slightly. An under-the-table kick. ‘When we saw it on the news last night it made me think. About that night in January. And…’
‘And what?’
‘Well, perhaps they did it?’
‘By they you mean…?’
‘You know who I mean. The others. Björn. Sindri. The student guy. Them. What if they all got back together and decided to kill Julian Lister? And Óskar?’
‘No,’ said Harpa. ‘Why should they?’
‘Why should they? Well, they were talking about it, weren’t they? I mean, weren’t we? About what we would like to do to the bankers. To Julian Lister.’
‘That was just talk,’ said Harpa.
‘But it wasn’t, was it? I mean what we did to your boyfriend. I mean we…’ Frikki’s voice was wavering.
‘You mean I,’ said Harpa.
‘No. No, Harpa. We. I’ve thought about it a lot. We don’t know which of the two of us actually killed him, do we? Maybe it was you, maybe it was me
. I kicked him in the head, after all.’
Harpa’s eyes widened. She had held herself solely responsible for Gabríel Örn’s death. She felt a surge of sympathy for the kid sitting opposite her. She knew what it was like to feel that guilty.
‘Well, I don’t know about the others, but I know Björn didn’t kill them,’ Harpa said. ‘I’ve got to know him very well. He’s a good man.’
‘But what about Sindri? You remember what he was saying. About how the Icelandic people aren’t violent enough. About how they should take physical action.’
‘He was just talking big,’ said Harpa. ‘He was half-drunk. We all were. In fact you were talking loudest of the lot.’
‘I know,’ said Frikki.
‘And anyway, those people were shot abroad, weren’t they? England, France.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to fly there and back,’ Magda said. ‘A fisherman could do it when he said he was out at sea. Go to Keflavík. London or Paris. No problem.’
‘That’s absurd. I know Björn didn’t do that.’
Magda shrugged. There was silence for a moment.
Frikki flinched as he received another kick under the table. Harpa glanced at the Polish girl. She had an open, honest face. Harpa didn’t trust her.
Frikki spoke. ‘The thing is, Harpa. I’m thinking about going to the police.’
‘What! Why would you do that?’
‘Well. Anonymously perhaps. But if all these people are being killed, then who’s to say it will stop now?’
‘No one. But it’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘It has. Believe me, I feel guilty already. If I don’t do something to stop them…’
‘You’re making a massive assumption here,’ Harpa said. ‘It would be one thing if we knew that Sindri or one of the others had killed these people, but we don’t. All we know is that you and I killed someone. And I feel quite strongly we should keep quiet about that.’
Frikki took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to warn you first.’
Harpa turned to the Polish woman.
‘Magda, is it?’
Magda nodded.
‘Listen. I know you think you are Frikki’s conscience, but this isn’t up to you. He’s a good kid. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison for years, which he will do. Maybe I do deserve to be locked up, but I have a three-year-old son. And the others helped us, me and Frikki, cover everything up. Björn in particular helped us. He shouldn’t go to jail.’
66° North Page 21
