by Mark Dawson
Olya might have almost no evidence that Finlay Karsh was a murderer, but she was convincing. It was possible that Walsh’s death on the beach that day was just a coincidence, but Björn agreed there was a good chance it might not be. Regardless, Björn was determined to get his sister away from Karsh.
The Tube was crowded, and Björn and Olya were silent. From Waterloo Station they walked through the poorly lit, narrow streets of Southwark, with rows of tall dour warehouses – most of which had been converted into expensive flats – glowering down on them.
Björn asked Olya about Finlay’s setup. “You’ve been to Finlay’s apartment before?”
“Oh, yeah. Many times. The four of us would go there a lot. Me and Jesse. Finlay and Gudrún.”
“Will Jesse be there?”
“Probably not. The plan was that he would go back to Connecticut for a couple of days before joining Finlay in London and then they were both going on to Scotland. Gudrún and I were supposed to go, too.”
“Scotland?”
“Yes. Finlay is Scottish, or he thinks he is.”
“I didn’t know Karsh was a Scottish name.”
Björn had served with many Scotsmen in the army, and none of them had had a name remotely like Karsh. Come to think of it, one of his fellow recruits at Hereford had been called Finlay, and he was from Dundee, although he hadn’t made it through the third day of the Brecon Beacons exercise. Last Björn had seen of him, he was being airlifted off the upper slopes of Pen-y-Fan. Alive, but not SAS material after all.
“His mother was born there. Her name was Maclean, I think he said. They have tribes or clans or something up there, like Cossacks back home. He bought a castle in the Highlands last year, by the sea, and he likes to play the lord. Or ‘laird’, as he calls it. It is very silly.” She chuckled. “His mother refuses to go there; it drives Finlay crazy. I think he thought she would be proud of him. But she says the weather is better in Florida.”
“Fine,” Björn said. “So Jesse won’t be there. What about protection?”
“He has a butler. Scottish, called Mackay – Finlay always wanted a Scottish butler. Mackay is not very big, but Jesse says he’s tough.” Olya paused. “Oh,” she went on. “I remember Jesse and Finlay talking about hiring bodyguards when Finlay got back to London.”
“Why?”
“A trade they were involved with at Lochalsh. Something about Dariastan.”
“Dariastan? Near Kyrgyzstan?”
She nodded. “Whatever this trade is, it’s pissed off some Uzbek billionaire. Jesse seemed to think he might turn violent, so he was going to organise bodyguards. They both thought it was funny; they like that tough-guy image.”
Olya glanced at Björn. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” said Björn. “No problem at all.”
5
Finlay Karsh’s building was a steel and glass structure not more than a couple of years old, set back one narrow block from the south bank of the river. Olya swept in through the lobby, nodding imperiously at the doorman and striding straight to the elevator. Björn saw the doorman reach for his phone.
Olya hit twelve, the top floor. The elevator door opened directly into the apartment, and they stepped out into a hallway. A slim man in a white shirt was waiting for them: Mackay, the Scottish butler.
“Hello, Olya,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“We’ve come to see Gudrún,” said Olya.
“And who is this?”
As the butler asked the question, a burly man in a dark suit appeared from a side door off the hallway. The protection. Too much muscle, Björn thought: it would slow him down.
“This is Björn, Gudrún’s brother. Now, we want to see her.” Olya tried to step past Mackay, but he skilfully moved with her, blocking her path.
“Just wait here a moment. Mr. Jessop” – he indicated the burly man – “will look after you. I’ll have a word with Finlay.”
Olya frowned and glanced at Björn. Björn nodded and stood quietly, trying not to square up against Mr. Jessop. He didn’t want to raise the other man’s guard needlessly, although given Björn’s size, it was unlikely Mr. Jessop would be complacent. Jessop looked confident and competent. Not a bouncer on minimum wage from the local nightclub. A professional: probably a former copper, Björn thought, rather than a soldier.
Didn’t matter.
Björn noticed one of Gudrún’s swirling rock pools hanging on the wall of the hall. It reminded him of the rocky shore near his stepfather’s summer house in Borgarfjördur where Gudrún used to love to play when she was little. The sight of it here made him angry.
The butler was back a moment later. “Come through,” he said.
Björn and Olya followed him through into a massive living room, which looked out over the Thames. The majestic buildings lining the north bank were each illuminated by their own floodlights, with St Paul’s Cathedral gleaming white behind them. The broad river glimmered in oranges, reds and greens. A train jostled over the nearest bridge, a streak of yellow dots trundling out to the suburbs.
A man wearing glasses and a black T-shirt was sitting on a sofa, watching Bloomberg News on a huge TV, a bottle of beer by his side. He stood up to greet them. He was short, compact, intense. “Olya. I wasn’t expecting to see you again. And this is Gudrún’s brother?”
“I’m Björn.” He held out his hand. Better to start out friendly.
The man glanced at it as if deciding whether to take it. Then he stepped forward to shake it. “Finlay Karsh.”
“Where is Gudrún?” Olya asked.
“I’m here,” a voice called up from the staircase leading to the floor below, and then Gudrún appeared. She was wearing an expensive blue cocktail dress, and looked stunning. Björn had hardly ever seen Gudrún in a dress. Black leggings were her uniform, complemented by a range of striking tops, usually also black.
“Björn?”
“Gudrún.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I want to have a quick word with you.”
“Did you bring him?” she demanded to Olya.
“Yes,” said Olya.
Gudrún glared at Björn. Anger flashed in her eyes, but also confusion. Björn could tell that part of her was pleased to see him.
“Can I have a word with you in private?” Björn said to his sister, in Icelandic.
“No,” said Gudrún, in English, frowning. “Finlay and I are just going out to Nobu for dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I need to speak to you now. About him.” Björn stuck to Icelandic.
“No, you don’t.” Gudrún’s blue eyes were defiant.
Björn knew how stubborn his little sister could be. That was something they shared; he was just as determined as she. “Just for ten minutes. Come out with me and Olya and talk. I can’t make you leave him, but Olya told me what happened on the island.”
“Are you speaking about me?” said Finlay, quietly.
“Of course he is talking about you,” Gudrún said in English. “But I don’t want to hear it. Nothing happened. She’s paranoid. So is he! Now please go, Björn. And you, Olya. You should never have brought him here.”
Björn took a step towards his sister and held out his hand. She stepped back.
“Ian, can you see Gudrún’s brother out?” said Finlay. “And Olya.”
“This way, sir,” said the butler, moving towards Björn, the bodyguard two paces behind.
“I will leave,” said Björn, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture, “if Gudrún comes with me. It will only be ten minutes and then she can come back here if she wants. I am her brother.”
“Gudrún?”
“I don’t want to speak to him. Go, Björn! Get out!”
Finlay nodded to the butler, who in turn nodded to Mr. Jessop, who approached Björn.
Björn slumped his shoulders in an attempt to lead Mr. Jessop to think he would leave quietly, but Mr. Jessop was ready for trouble.
H
e got it.
Björn was fast. Really fast. In less than a second, he had jabbed the big man in the eyes, moved in close and kneed him between the legs. As the other man stooped in pain, Björn decided against a chop to the neck – too dangerous; the guy was only doing his job – and slammed his elbow into the bodyguard’s cheek.
Mr. Jessop crumpled.
But the butler was fast too. He thrust out a leg and kicked Björn sharply in the shin. Björn stumbled and Mackay stepped forward with a jab to Björn’s face that Björn only just parried. Björn was off balance and vulnerable. Mackay only needed a moment to strike, but in that moment a bottle hit him full in the face. He staggered. Regaining his balance, Björn pushed upwards and slammed his palm into Mackay’s face. He punched him in the stomach and shoved him onto the floor.
The whole thing had taken less than five seconds. Björn nodded to Olya, who had cracked Finlay’s beer bottle against the side of the butler’s head. “Nice.”
Olya almost smiled.
Björn grabbed Gudrún by the arm. “Come on. Just ten minutes, that’s all.”
For a second, he thought Gudrún would scream.
“Come,” said Olya, with quiet authority. “Talk to your brother.”
Gudrún nodded and glanced at Finlay, who had been careful not to involve himself in the fray. “I’ll be back soon.”
6
They stopped at the first pub they came to, a local boozer that somehow had not yet been gentrified. Gudrún looked completely out of place in her blue dress and fine jewellery, and attracted stares from the locals, which she ignored. They also looked at Björn; he stared back at them, and they returned their attention to their drinks.
Gudrún sat at a table, while Olya got some drinks.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Björn said in Icelandic.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, too. You have no right to force me to come with you.”
“I know you’re angry,” said Björn. “But I’m your family. I’m worried about you. And him.”
“Why?” said Gudrún. “You know nothing about him.”
“Olya has told me.”
“Told you what?”
“I said – about the island.”
She snorted. “Please.”
“She says that he might have killed a man. Someone who worked for his hedge fund.”
“I know she says that. I don’t believe her. She’s got no evidence at all.”
Olya arrived with the drinks: a pint of beer and two glasses of white wine.
Björn switched to English for her benefit. “Olya sounds convincing to me.”
Gudrún glanced at the Russian. “Well, not to me. I asked Finlay about it after Olya tried to get me to leave him. He said Walsh was trying to blackmail them, which was why Jesse was tense. He also told me Kevin had a drug problem, which was one of the reasons he was fired, and also the reason he got himself killed on the island.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” said Olya.
“It’s true,” Gudrún protested. “I know Finlay. He wouldn’t lie to me.”
Olya was about to argue, but Björn held up his hand to stop her. “Finlay’s not a good guy, Gudrún,” he said. “He’s trouble. You need to get away from him.”
Gudrún looked up at her brother. Björn was surprised to see that her eyes were moist. “He’s not a good guy? Because Olya thinks he’s a killer? Is that what you’re saying?”
Björn swallowed. He could see where this was going. “Yes.”
“But you’re a killer. And you’re a good guy.”
“I was a soldier. That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“We kill to protect our country. To make the world a better place.”
“Your country? Since when is Britain your country? You left when you were two years old. Iceland’s your country.”
“I believe in what Britain stands for,” said Björn.
“You killed for the fun of it. That’s why you joined the army. That’s why you joined the SAS. For the kicks. It wasn’t as if you could join the army in Iceland.”
Olya looked at Björn in confusion.
“Iceland doesn’t have an army,” he explained.
“Don’t deny it, Björn,” Gudrún pressed. “You killed for fun.”
Björn couldn’t deny it. And he didn’t want to lie to his sister. “Maybe. But now I have stopped. Now I have a different job, a different life. I’m studying. Researching. Teaching. Like my father.”
Gudrún was still staring at him.
“Maybe I’m not such a good guy,” Björn admitted. “But I know shooting someone in cold blood is wrong.”
Gudrún’s large blue eyes were a battlefield of conflicting emotions: anger, sadness, passion. Love.
“What about Pabbi?”
Björn felt cold. “What about him?”
Gudrún’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “You killed him, didn’t you? He didn’t just fall over when he was drunk.”
Björn was silent. His instinct was to deny. Since that night seventeen years ago, he had been ready to blurt out a denial as soon as anyone asked. But no one ever had. Their mother had made sure that the question was never asked. The ambulance men, the doctors, the police – all had been told that Siggi had fallen over when he was drunk.
They had all believed her. Or, at least, pretended to.
“Did Mama tell you?” She must have done. There was no other way that Gudrún could have found out that detail.
Gudrún nodded. “When I was sixteen. And she told me what Pabbi used to do to her. How he hit her when he was drunk.”
“It wasn’t just that,” said Björn. “He bullied her, too. Humiliated her. And sometimes I thought he was going to kill her. It drove me crazy.”
He felt an urge to explain. There was a chance, a good chance, that Gudrún might understand, despite everything. And it was already too late to stop.
“I never knew my own father,” he went on, “but everyone used to say such great things about him. And then Mama married Siggi. I don’t doubt that Mama loved him, at least at first, but I never trusted him. He was rich, and he was charming, but he was a bully.”
It wasn’t difficult for Björn to bring up his memories of Siggi. He was a “quota king”, the name Icelanders gave to those fishermen who had been granted fishing quotas for free just because they happened to have owned fishing boats on a certain date in the 1980s when the licenses were issued. As a policy it had worked: Iceland was one of the few countries in the world with a truly sustainable fishing policy. But the quotas soon became valuable, and their fortunate owners became millionaires. A quota king was quite a catch, although, to be strictly accurate, Siggi was a quota prince; it was his father who had been granted the fishing rights. Through judicious trading of quotas, and many years spent on trawlers out at sea, Siggi had built a thriving business.
Björn was ten when his mother had married Siggi. Björn hated him; Siggi didn’t much like Björn either. For two years, Siggi had treated Björn’s mother well. Then little Gudrún had come along and Siggi had got tired of his wife. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, Björn would stay in his room hearing the fights. Words at first, then blows.
The fury grew.
He grew, too. He had always been big for his age, but as he went through puberty, he became stronger. He would go out on his stepfather’s boats in the summer holidays, and he would haul nets with the others.
He got bigger and stronger and angrier. He fantasised about storming out of his bedroom and beating the living shit out of Siggi.
Then, one night at about eleven o’clock, Siggi came back from drinking with his trawlermen buddies. Björn was awake. There had been a bad night two days before. Björn couldn’t take another one. He heard the shouting, at first just on his stepfather’s part. Then his mother had started screaming, too. He heard the smack of a blow, and another scream – this time of pain, not anger – from his mother. That was enough. Björn rushed through to t
he living room and yelled at Siggi to stop.
Björn’s mother was curled up on the sofa weeping. One of Siggi’s fists was clenched and he was swaying from side to side. He was clearly very drunk.
Siggi turned to Björn, took a moment to focus his eyes and grinned. “Going to make me?”
Siggi was big. As a fisherman he was very strong. He was aggressive. He was a bully. Björn was only fifteen. The sensible thing to do would have been to back off.
But Björn had been waiting for this moment for years. He was lightning fast. Siggi was drunk and slow. Björn landed a perfect blow on Siggi’s jaw and the big man staggered and fell.
He was on the ground moaning.
Björn should have left him. His impulse was to kick Siggi in the head, but Icelanders don’t wear shoes indoors and his toes were protected by nothing more than socks.
So he stamped down on Siggi’s temple with his heel three times.
Siggi lay still. Björn went back to his bedroom.
Ten minutes later, Björn’s mother had put her head around the door. Björn would never forget the expression on her face. Naked dread.
“Björn. Remember this. You never left your bedroom. You heard us argue, and that’s it. Do you understand me? Just say yes or no.”
“Yes,” Björn had said.
Twenty minutes after that the ambulance came. And then the police. A female constable spoke to Björn, and he said he had heard an argument from his bedroom, but he had stayed there. In the following days Björn and his mother never spoke about what had happened. It wasn’t clear at first what the police thought, but in the end, they had decided that Siggi had fallen and hit his temple. Björn assumed they suspected his mother had killed her husband in self-defence. Everyone knew what Siggi was like. Declaring his death an accident was the best way of dealing with it.
Björn’s life had changed forever at that moment.
As had Gudrún’s.
