66° North (38 page)

‘Well, that pretty much rules him out,’ said Magnus. ‘Speak to you later.’

He took a deep breath and called Baldur. He told him about Ingileif, Sindri and Ingólfur Arnarson. He got the ridicule he expected, but not for the reason he expected it.

‘Do you really think I’m going to take any notice of this information?’ Baldur asked.

‘Well, yes,’ said Magnus. ‘We need to warn all the Outvaders we can find. Their lives might be in danger.’

‘These are still some of the most important people in the country. And you want me to put them on high alert on the basis of the ravings of a drunken fantasist trying to get a woman into bed?’

‘He’s not necessarily a fantasist,’ said Magnus.

‘Oh yes he is,’ said Baldur. ‘We’ve been watching Sindri on and off for at least a decade. He talks big, but he doesn’t
do
anything. People like Sindri never
do
anything. And when they get drunk they just talk bigger.’

‘So you think that Sindri was just boasting?’

‘Show me evidence that he wasn’t.’

‘We saw him with Björn and Harpa at the demonstrations in January.’

‘Which proves nothing.’

‘All right,’ said Magnus. He had been reluctant to make the phone call in the first place. If Baldur didn’t want to respond to it, there was nothing much more Magnus could do.

Perhaps Vigdís would get something out of the kid.

Sophie sat at the back of the small lecture theatre. European Human Rights. She had no idea what the lecturer was saying, her concentration had wandered within the first minute.

The seat next to her was empty. It was usually where Zak sat, but Zak was… Zak was where, exactly? She had no idea.

She had scarcely slept all night. She had called his mobile and texted him at regular intervals without reply, and then, first thing in the morning, she had called his home number.

His mother had answered. To the polite question ‘how are you?’ the woman had answered, ‘fine’. She wasn’t supposed to be fine, she was supposed to be dying, but maybe she was just being polite in return. But when Sophie had asked to speak to Ísak, she was told he had disappeared on a camping trip.

Then his mother had asked whether there was anything wrong with Ísak, and Sophie had answered, truthfully, ‘I don’t know.’

Sophie was worried about what Josh had said the night before about Zak asking about Julian Lister’s holiday arrangements. That was very strange: she could think of no plausible explanation. She knew that Zak hadn’t actually shot the ex-Chancellor himself, he was at home in London on Sunday. Although he
had
gone to church that day. And Sophie knew for a fact that Zak didn’t believe in God.

Something was up. All her instincts were screaming at her that something was up.

But what? Sophie couldn’t really believe that Zak was a terrorist, or part of a conspiracy of terrorists. In which case why not call the police with her suspicions? Let them clear him. She had the card that the policewoman had left Zak in her jeans pocket.

Because it would be disloyal, that was why. She would never be able to look Zak in the eye again.

Josh was sitting at the front of the lecture theatre, typing away on his laptop. Really taking notes, probably, he didn’t look like a Facebook surfing type.

He was a bright guy, if a little overenthusiastic. Sophie scarcely knew him – she remembered some perceptive questions he had asked in that class, and some that were a little out there.

She had an idea.

When, finally, the lecture finished, Sophie was one of the first through the exit, which was at the back of the theatre by her seat. She loitered, waiting to pounce. Josh was the third to last out.

‘Josh!’

‘Oh, hi. Sophie, isn’t it?’ He shrank back a little.

‘Can I have a quick chat about something?’

‘If it’s about what I said about your boyfriend last night, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’m sure I was wrong.’

‘It is about that,’ said Sophie. ‘And quite frankly I don’t know whether you are wrong or right. But, well, if Zak really did ask you the questions you say he did about Lister, then I think you should tell the police.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t mean anything,’ said Josh.

‘Listen to me, Josh,’ Sophie said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘I’m not at all sure of that. Do you understand me? You might be right, I just don’t know. Here’s the number of a policewoman who interviewed Zak a couple of days ago. If you’re still suspicious, call her. OK?’

‘OK,’ said Josh, staring at the card Sophie had handed him.

He let her go first, and then ambled into Clare Market in the heart of the tight cluster of buildings that made up the London School of Economics, pulled out his phone and dialled the number. Detective Sergeant Piper didn’t answer, but he left a message.

Josh was always having outlandish theories but none of them ever turned out to be true. Could that really be about to change?

Magnus walked the short distance to Ingileif’s gallery. It was on Skólavördustígur, a short road that led up the hill from Laugavegur directly to the scaffolding-clad sweeping spire of the Hallgrímskirkja. The street was lined with galleries and art shops, although since the arrival of the
kreppa
quite a few had closed. Ingileif’s gallery had survived, just. She owned it with five partners, all female artists of one kind or another. They sold paintings, jewellery, some furniture, fish-skin bags designed by Ingileif herself, lava candle-holders and some small items of furniture. All high-end expensive stuff.

As Magnus walked past the window, he saw her staring outside, an empty expression on her face. Even though she was looking straight at him, she didn’t seem to see him. It was only when he walked through the door that she noticed him.

She smiled quickly and briefly. He held her. After a few seconds they broke apart. She turned away from him, moving towards the back of the gallery, putting a little distance between them.

‘I’m sorry I stormed out on you last night,’ Ingileif said. ‘I was pretty drunk.’

‘I could tell.’

‘But why don’t you
trust
me, Magnús?’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Ingileif said. Pink spots appeared on her pale cheeks, a sure sign that she was either angry or embarrassed. Magnus guessed angry. ‘Admit it, you don’t trust me.’

‘I do,’ Magnus said. ‘I didn’t last night, but I do now.’

‘Why now? What’s changed? Magnús, I did it all for you, don’t you see that? Do you think I enjoyed listening to that fat old man droning on for hours on end? Do you think I actually wanted to sleep with him? I was trying to help you out. I thought you’d be pleased with me, instead of which you are upset because I didn’t stick to the rules and you think I enjoy seducing old men. I’m sorry, but if you think that, there isn’t much of a future for us.’

Magnus sighed. ‘I don’t think that, Ingileif. You’re right, I got the wrong end of the stick. I didn’t understand what you were doing. And it’s true I don’t completely understand you. That’s one of the reasons why I love you.’

Ingileif’s grey eyes searched Magnus’s. He didn’t know whether they found what they were looking for.

‘I think I’m going to go to Germany, Magnús.’

Magnus was about to say, ‘don’t do that,’ when he stopped himself. He couldn’t stop her: she could do what she wanted. ‘That would be a shame.’

‘You said there’s a good chance you’ll be going back to the States. Why should I stay for you if you won’t stay for me?’

Magnus nodded. ‘That’s true.’

‘Well, then?’ Ingileif’s expression softened. ‘It’s not just you, Magnús. I should go. It would be a good opportunity for me. And it would be good to get away from this country for a bit. That stuff
earlier this year with Agnar’s murder, all the things I learned about my father, my brother, I need to put that behind me.’

‘I thought I helped you with that,’ Magnus said.

‘I thought so too. But part of me holds you responsible for it. It’s not fair, but it’s true. I need to leave, Magnús.’

Magnus looked at Ingileif. The familiar grey eyes, the little nick above her left eyebrow, the smaller scar on her cheek. He had been lucky to know her, to love her even. But he couldn’t control her. He couldn’t keep her, he shouldn’t keep her. Why should someone like her stay just for him?

‘Do what you have to do,’ he said. And he turned and left the gallery.

Ísak walked out of the small shop with a plastic bag full of half a dozen items: bits and pieces of fishing tackle and a sharp knife that one could use for gutting a fish.

Or for something else.

The other items were just cover: to make it less likely that the shopkeeper would take note of a stranger coming into town to buy a knife, and just a knife.

His phone beeped. He pulled it out. A text message from Sophie asking where he was. He had no intention of replying. A shame about Sophie. She was cute but that relationship had no future. She would figure out eventually what he was up to, and she was too much of a good girl not to tell someone.

The back of his mother’s Honda was filled with his parents’ camping equipment. Ísak had parked it under the rocky outcrop upon which the church at Borgarnes stood. The town was about a third of the way between Reykjavík and Grundarfjördur. He pulled out a map and examined it.

Björn had talked about a hut on a mountain pass behind Grundarfjördur. Grundarfjördur was on the north coast of the Snaefells Peninsula, the backbone of which was a range of mountains. There was no pass directly to the south of Grundarfjördur,
but there were two candidates a little further away, one to the east and one to the west. Ísak would check these first.

He felt tense and strangely excited. Gabríel Örn’s death had genuinely shocked him. But over time he had got used to the idea, and his anger with the Icelandic establishment, including his father, had grown. When he, Björn and Sindri had met that summer to talk about taking things further, intellectually he had been all for it. But, like the other two, he hadn’t been ready to pull the trigger himself. They had found someone else to do that.

But now, after Óskar and Julian Lister, Ísak was ready to do the deed himself.

And there was no doubt in his mind Harpa had to be killed.

He had spent so long reading and arguing about ideas such as ‘the end justifies the means’, and ‘the vanguard of the people’, it was exciting to find himself actually living by those precepts. Lenin, Trotsky, Castro, Che Guevara, they had all begun their careers like him, young intellectuals with ideas and enthusiasm but no experience of violence. And then at some point ideas had become action. That point for him was now.

He knew Björn had given up hope of getting away with it, and he suspected that Sindri had too, but he still thought there was a good chance that they might escape prosecution. None of the three of them had actually killed anyone and there was no evidence suggesting they had. Conspiracy would be much harder to prove, especially if the police had no idea who had actually been pulling the trigger. Which Ísak was pretty sure they didn’t.

Sindri was naïve hoping that the time of revolution was now. It would come, it might take years, but civil society would eventually break down under the weight of the contradictions of capitalism. And when it did, Ísak would be ready for it. He would spend the coming years building up an elite cadre of revolutionaries, a true vanguard of the proletariat who would be able to lead people like Björn to a better world.

It would come. He was young. He could be patient.

Everything would be fine as long as they all stayed quiet. He
thought he could trust Björn and Sindri to do that. But not Harpa. Harpa would talk.

He would have to be careful. Killing Harpa would of course lead to its own inquiry and he would be a prime suspect. He would have to be sure not to leave any forensic evidence in the Honda. It would be important to dispose of the body miles away from Grundarfjördur, or anywhere he had been seen.

He wouldn’t be able to set up a perfect alibi, but he had spent the previous night in a small campsite just outside Reykjavík on the road to the south-east, taking care to give the owner his name. He had got up early that morning and doubled back, driving north. Once Harpa was out of the way, he planned to drive across Iceland, through the night if necessary. If he was seen camping in Thórsmörk, well to the east of Reykjavík, the morning after Harpa’s death, the police might believe that he had spent the whole time in the area.

Ísak trusted his own intelligence. He would be able to figure it out.

V
IGDÍS LOOKED AT
the nineteen-year-old boy opposite her. His eyes were rimmed with red and he looked miserable.

He hadn’t talked after his night in the cells, and Vigdís was surprised. She had done her best to coax something out of him, to make him feel good about confessing to whatever he wanted to confess to. She had mentioned Gabríel Örn, Sindri, Björn and Harpa. Nothing.

Ingólfur Arnarson. Nothing.

Then Árni had tried. His histrionics, including a bit of shouting at Frikki and banging on the table had been, quite frankly, embarrassing. For a moment Vigdís thought that she had exchanged a half-smile of amusement with Frikki, but then it was gone. She fervently hoped that they wouldn’t have to play back the videotape. There was no doubt about it: Árni watched too much TV.

There was a knock at the door and one of the duty constables from the front desk appeared. ‘Vigdís? There’s someone to see you.’

Vigdís left Árni to it and followed the constable into an adjoining interview room. There sat a dark-haired woman of about twenty.

‘I am Magda, Frikki’s girlfriend,’ she said in English.

Vigdís remembered that Árni had mentioned a girlfriend when he had picked Frikki up from his mother’s house. ‘Do you speak Icelandic?’ Vigdís asked.

‘A little. Can I talk to him?’

‘I’m afraid not. We are interviewing him in relation to a very serious incident.’

‘Please. Just for five minutes.’

Vigdís shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. But perhaps you can help. Do you know anything about the death of Gabríel Örn in January this year?’