66° North

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘But we have a duty to stop any more people being murdered,’ Magda said.

  ‘We don’t know why these people were murdered! We don’t know there is a connection. Óskar and Lister weren’t even in Iceland. We just keep quiet, Frikki, do you understand me?’ Harpa was surprised by the authority she heard in her own voice. ‘And we don’t become friends. We keep well clear of each other. Otherwise we both wind up in jail and achieve nothing. Do you agree? Frikki, do you agree?’

  Frikki glanced at Magda who was frowning. Harpa could see how torn she was, between doing what she thought was the right thing, and sending the boy she loved to jail. But it wasn’t up to her. It was up to Harpa and Frikki.

  ‘Frikki, you’ll never forget what happened,’ Harpa said. ‘But you are still young. You’re not a murderer, you didn’t mean to kill Gabríel Örn. You can still turn your life around. Focus on that.’

  Frikki glanced at Magda. She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘OK,’ Frikki said. ‘OK.’

  *

  The moment Magnus saw Sindri he remembered where he recognized him from.

  Oh, shit.

  He wished he had brought Árni along, rather than Vigdís. This could get embarrassing, and Árni was an easier person to be embarrassed in front of.

  But Sindri didn’t recognize him. He was full of indignation at being harassed by police in his own home. Magnus could tell that Sindri wasn’t surprised by the visit. On the other hand Sindri was probably used to unannounced visits by the police.

  The flat was a dump, and smelled faintly of marijuana, stale tobacco and rotten food. Sindri reluctantly led them into the living room. There was a pile of dirty plates by the sink in the kitchen alcove. A computer in one corner was surrounded by paper on the desk and on the floor. Sindri was obviously working on something which involved a lot of pages.

  Sindri sat down at the dining table and folded his arms. ‘All right, what do you want?’ he said. His deep voice was defiant, but there was something friendly about his puffy eyes that he couldn’t quite hide.

  Magnus glanced up at the big painting on the wall by the table. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Is it Bjartur of Summerhouses?’

  ‘Amazing. A cop who reads.’

  ‘Independent People is a good book.’

  ‘It’s a great book. Everyone in Iceland should be forced to read it now. In fact they should have read it five years ago. If there were more Bjarturs around and fewer Ólafur Tómassons, this country would be one of the great survivors of the credit crunch.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ said Magnus.

  Sindri grunted. He obviously didn’t like policemen agreeing with him.

  ‘We want to ask you about the protests over the winter,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Oh, yes? It’s a bit late to round up the usual suspects, isn’t it? But there will be more of them, you know,’ Sindri said. ‘The people won’t put up with this Icesave agreement. Why should our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have to repay debts that were incurred by a bunch of crooks we had no knowledge of?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ said Magnus.

  Sindri was off. ‘The government are just bending over backwards for the British and the Dutch. What is all this crap? “The Icelandic nation will always stand by its obligations.” Why the fuck should we? That’s what I want to know. We should tell the British to get their money off the bankers themselves and leave the rest of us out of it.’

  Sindri nodded, encouraging himself. ‘I knew this would happen. We have a socialist government now, but what’s the point? They are just like the last lot, but weaker. They haven’t actually done anything. It’s nearly a year since the banks went bust and they still haven’t brought a banker to justice. Not one single one. Yet you guys raided the squat around the corner and threw ordinary people out on to the streets.’

  Magnus had heard of the raid, although it took place just before he arrived in Iceland. Drug-dealers, he had heard, and some of them dangerous at that. But he didn’t defend his colleagues.

  ‘I get it,’ said Sindri. ‘You’re trying to take me out before the new protests start.’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Magnus. ‘We want to ask you about one protest in particular. Tuesday the twentieth of January. The day Parliament came back from its recess.’

  ‘Oh, I remember that one. Or at least the beginning of it. I missed some of the fun later on that night. Left too early. I went out the next day, the Wednesday, though.’

  ‘Do you know Harpa Einarsdóttir and Björn Helgason?’ Vigdís asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were seen with both of them at the demonstration that day. They stuck with you most of the afternoon.’

  ‘Have you been looking at your surveillance videos?’ Sindri asked. ‘I’ve often wondered what you did with them.’

  ‘You are seen with Harpa and Björn.’

  ‘And lots of other people,’ Sindri said. ‘I like to talk to people at these things. You’ve seen the video footage. You know.’

  ‘So you don’t remember these two?’ Magnus asked.

  Sindri paused. ‘Wait a minute. I think I remember Harpa. Dark curly hair? Cute?’

  ‘That’s right. Have you seen her since then?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. And I’ve got no idea who this Björn guy is. I went to all the protests. They all merge into one after a while.’

  ‘Did you go anywhere with them afterwards?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘No. I was a bit pissed. I came back here, had a bit more to drink. Went to sleep. As I said, it was a shame. Things got a bit more exciting later on, apparently.’

  ‘Did you come back here alone?’

  ‘Quite alone.’

  ‘Harpa and Björn didn’t come with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were seen following you. Where did they leave you?’

  ‘I really can’t remember,’ said Sindri. He smiled.

  A dead end. Sindri knew it. And Magnus knew it.

  ‘Have you been abroad recently?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘No,’ said Sindri. ‘Can’t afford it. No one can afford it these days. I went to Germany at the end of last year to publicize my book, but nothing since then.’

  ‘And where were you on last Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Um. Let me think.’ Sindri made a show of struggling to remember. But Magnus had the impression that he had an answer already prepared and he was just delaying for effect. That was interesting.

  ‘I was in a bookshop. Eymundsson’s. A friend of mine was launching his book there. They’ll remember. Why? What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘What about yesterday?’

  ‘Did nothing. Went to the Grand Rokk at lunchtime. Spent most of the day there.’

  ‘The Grand Rokk?’ said Vigdís. ‘You mean the bar?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just around the corner.’ Then Sindri’s eyes widened. ‘Wait a minute!’ He jabbed a finger at Magnus. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you. The Grand Rokk.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Not possibly. Certainly. You’re the guy who lived in America, aren’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Last time I saw you, you were pissed out of your head.’

  Vigdís’s eyes darted to Magnus and then back at Sindri.

  ‘Did anyone see you there yesterday?’ she asked.

  Sindri ignored her. ‘I thought you had a bit of an American accent.’ He smiled. ‘“Who loves ya baby?” Isn’t that what Kojak says?’ He raised his thumb and index finger in the sign of a revolver being cocked. ‘“Make my day.”’

  Magnus leaped to his feet, kicking back his chair. With two strides he was on Sindri, grabbing him around the collar. Sindri was heavy but Magnus was strong. He wrenched the big man out of his chair and shoved him against the wall.

  ‘Listen, asshole,’ he said in English. ‘You know what happened to Óskar Gunnarsson and Gabríel Örn Bergsson. And probably Julian Lister as well. Now it seems to me yo
u’ve got a choice to make. Whether you spend the rest of your life in a French jail or a British one. It’s just a shame I can’t find a space for you in Cedar Junction back home. You’d enjoy that.’

  Magnus saw the fear in Sindri’s eyes.

  He let him go. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said.

  It was a short distance from Sindri’s flat to police headquarters, which was at the eastern end of Hverfisgata opposite the bus station. Magnus was driving.

  ‘That’s not normally the way we conduct interviews here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.

  ‘Maybe you should,’ said Magnus.

  ‘The Grand Rokk is a bit of a dive, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t go there often.’

  They drove on in silence.

  ‘If you have a problem, I know people you can talk to,’ Vigdís said.

  ‘Why is it that if a guy has a drink on a Tuesday night, he’s an alcoholic, but if he gets totally shit-faced on a Friday, he’s just being sociable?’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ said Vigdís.

  And that was all either of them said until they were back in the station.

  Harpa served Klara, who was a regular customer, and partial to Dísa’s vínarbraud. She was well into her seventies, and came in at about the same time every day for a slice. She liked to take her time over the purchase and usually Harpa was happy to chat, but this time she was distracted, only half listening.

  She was pleased with how firm she had been with Frikki. But the more she thought about it, the more she worried that the kid might have a point. She was sure that Björn wasn’t involved in any way with Óskar’s death, or with Lister’s. She had no idea about Ísak. But Sindri?

  For years the man had publicly espoused violence to defeat capitalism. But then for years he had done nothing about it, as far as Harpa had heard. Icelanders loved to talk politics, to complain, to demand change, but they didn’t resort to violence, even the anarchists. Harpa guessed that the big man was all talk.

  But perhaps having been involved in one killing it became easier to kill again? There was no doubt that there was a possible link between Óskar and Julian Lister, and Gabríel Örn for that matter, and that was responsibility for the kreppa. And maybe there would be another death soon.

  No. It was nothing to do with her. She should do what she had told Frikki to do, keep quiet and forget it.

  Klara finally left and Harpa busied herself with rearranging the pastries under the counter. Forget it? She couldn’t forget it. She felt guilty enough about the death of Gabríel Örn. Frikki was right, she wouldn’t be able to face the guilt if someone else was murdered and it turned out that the murderer was Sindri.

  Perhaps she should speak to Björn. But she already knew what he would say. He would discourage her, urge her to keep quiet, keep a low profile, just as she had urged Frikki.

  At least she could trust him. There was no chance that he had shot Óskar or Julian Lister. The Polish woman was being ridiculous. What did she think, that he had left her house the previous week and gone straight to the airport instead of back to Grundarfjördur? Ridiculous. He’d need passport, tickets, money for a start.

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her ears begin to sing. She felt faint and slipped back against the wall, dropping the tray of pastries she was carrying with a clatter.

  No. No, no, no, no, no! She couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it.

  ‘What is it Harpa? Are you OK?’

  She scarcely felt Dísa’s hand on her shoulder, or heard her concerned voice.

  She was thinking about what she had noticed sticking out of the pocket of Björn’s light blue coat when he had stayed with her that night.

  An electric-blue Icelandic passport.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAGNUS HAD JUST got back to his desk when his phone rang. ‘Magnus, it’s Sharon.’

  ‘Did you get the photo?’

  ‘Yeah. I got a good shot. I’m on my way to the station to print off a copy to show to Gunnarsson’s neighbour.’

  Magnus’s pulse quickened. Matching a description was one thing, but a positive ID would be the first real evidence of a link between Óskar’s murder and Gabríel Örn’s death.

  ‘If you don’t get a good print, we’ve probably got a mugshot in our database here. Did you ask Ísak where he was yesterday?’

  ‘That’s why I am calling. I’m at the chaplain’s office in the Icelandic Embassy, checking out Ísak’s story. He said he was at the Icelandic Church service in the morning. The chaplain confirms it.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Yes. Although it was the first time Ísak has attended. Made a point of coming up and talking to the chaplain. Which makes me think—’

  ‘He was setting up an alibi?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Magnus thought about it. He knew they were in danger of manipulating the facts to fit the theory. ‘That’s stretching it a bit.’

  ‘Yeah. Perhaps. We’ll see what the neighbour says.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the investigation in Normandy?’

  ‘Only what I’ve seen on the news. I’ve kept my nose well out of that one, like you asked me to.’

  ‘Thanks, Sharon.’

  ‘No problem.’

  But Magnus couldn’t help noticing the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. She did have a problem with his request: there was no doubt about it. Tough.

  ‘Explain to me why you aren’t at the police college?’ Baldur demanded, glaring at Magnus.

  Magnus exhaled. ‘Vigdís found some new evidence on the video of the January protest the day Gabríel Örn was killed.’

  ‘I thought I told you that case was closed?’

  ‘Yes, I know. But listen to what we’ve got.’ Magnus described the identification of Sindri on the video and most of his interview, missing Sindri’s reference to Magnus’s own presence at the Grand Rokk.

  He summed up. ‘So Harpa, Björn, Sindri, Ísak, they are all linked. Harpa, Björn and Sindri all met on the day Gabríel Örn was killed. Ísak started a fight with Harpa that evening in a bar at about the time Gabríel Örn died. And he fits the description of the Icelandic courier who was looking for Óskar’s address in London a few days before the murder. Harpa is connected to Óskar – Óskar was her son’s father and we know she met him in London in July. Björn and Harpa are in a relationship. And Sindri, well Sindri is an anarchist who believes in using violence to overthrow capitalism.’

  ‘None of that is hard evidence,’ Baldur said. ‘The only real link between all these people is that you are suspicious of them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Magnus. ‘We need to go in and get the hard evidence.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Set up a tail on Sindri. And Björn. Get warrants to search their apartments and their computers. Take a look at the phone company records – see if they’ve been talking to each other. Get a positive ID on Ísak and get the British police to arrest him.’

  Baldur shook his head. ‘We’re not doing that.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Magnus.

  ‘Because that will turn this case into a full-blown hunt for an Icelandic terrorist cell.’

  ‘Which maybe it should be,’ said Magnus.

  ‘No!’ said Baldur, slapping his hand on his desk. ‘No. Not without evidence.’

  ‘But what if I’m right? What if another banker is killed tomorrow?’

  Baldur cupped his hands over his face and closed his eyes. Magnus let him think. ‘So, what’s the motive?’ the inspector asked eventually.

  ‘For Harpa, she had something personal against Gabríel Örn and against Óskar. All of them are victims of the kreppa, they could be getting their revenge against the people they blame for it. Bankers. The British government.’

  ‘But half the country has suffered from the kreppa. And they don’t want to kill anybody. Icelanders don’t do that.’

  ‘Half the country might not do that. But we’re talking abou
t three or four individuals. We know Sindri believes in violence. Maybe the others do too. Ísak is a politics student: his mother said he was a radical.’

  Baldur shook his head. ‘I don’t buy that. Let’s think about alibis. If you are right, and some or all of these people are responsible for Óskar and Lister’s shooting, then at least one of them must have been in London last week and France yesterday? Now take me through them.’

  Magnus knew that Baldur had found the hole in his theory. ‘Óskar was shot last Tuesday night. Harpa was working at the bakery in Seltjarnarnes, Björn was fishing on a boat from Grundarfjördur, Sindri was at a book launch, although we’ll have to check that.’

  ‘And Ísak?’

  ‘Was in Iceland, staying with his parents.’

  ‘All right,’ said Baldur. ‘And yesterday? Were any of them in Normandy?’

  ‘Harpa we interviewed late on Saturday afternoon – it would have been very hard for her to get to France in time, Björn I saw myself on Sunday, Sindri was in the Grand Rokk and Ísak was in church in London.’

  ‘So how did they shoot the two victims?’

  ‘The alibis are too pat, especially Ísak’s,’ Magnus said. ‘There is no good reason why he came back to Reykjavík last week. And the going to church seems like a deliberate attempt to set up an alibi.’

  ‘You’re struggling here, Magnús.’

  Baldur was right, damn him. ‘Maybe there was someone else?’ Magnus said. ‘A fifth conspirator. The guy who pulled the trigger. The assassin.’

  Baldur smiled thinly. ‘That’s my point, Magnús. Maybe someone else pulled the trigger. Two different someone elses, one in London and one in Normandy. And maybe neither of them had anything at all to do with Iceland.’

  ‘All right,’ Magnus said. ‘I may be wrong. But there is a chance, just a small chance, I may be right. I know there are more connections here: we just haven’t found them yet. I don’t know what these connections add up to. But let us keep on digging. Because if I am right, someone else is going to get shot very soon.’