66° North (28 page)

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.

M
AGNUS 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 about 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.’

Baldur sat back in his chair. Magnus knew Baldur didn’t like him, and this would be a chance for him to slap him down and send him back to college. Magnus had worked for bosses in Boston who would have done just that. But Baldur was an old-fashioned cop, a cop who respected gut instinct. The question was whether he respected Magnus.

‘Here’s what you do. Keep digging for a couple more days, the three of you. But dig
quietly
, do you understand? Keep this to the three of you, don’t talk about it even around the station. I don’t want to find myself defending a terrorist scare to the
Commissioner. And if you don’t find hard evidence, we drop the case. Understand?’

‘I understand,’ said Magnus.

Sophie turned off the radio in the kitchen and rinsed out her coffee cup. She was in full procrastination mode, and she knew it. She should have been in the library hours ago. She had an essay on the rise of social inequality under socialist governments to write, and there was a ton of reading she still hadn’t done.

She didn’t know where her motivation had gone. It was the beginning of her final year and she really had to crank things up. Maybe living with Zak wasn’t such a good idea after all. He had no trouble with the work, he was very smart and had a genuine passion for politics, especially the old Marxist thinkers that were going out of fashion. His tutors loved him; he reminded them of the good old days when LSE was a hothouse of radical politics, and not just a passport into investment banking. He had iron discipline, but she just liked to hang around him wasting time.

She wondered what the police wanted with him. When she had asked he hadn’t answered. But she thought she knew what it was: Zak did some small-time drug dealing, just supplying his friends, but it helped him make ends meet. After the credit crunch the previous year the grants and loans from the Icelandic government didn’t go nearly as far as they used to.

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.