66° North (32 page)

‘Do you remember much about Björn’s brother Gulli from when you interviewed him?’

‘No,’ said Árni. ‘Just that everything he said about Björn and Harpa staying with him that night seemed to stack up. Why?’

‘I tried to see him on Saturday. He wasn’t in. A neighbour said he was away on holiday and had been for a while.’

‘You think he might have gone to London?’ Vigdís asked.

‘Or Normandy?’ said Árni.

‘Or both,’ said Magnus.

‘Do you want me to see if he is back?’ said Vigdís.

‘Yes.’ He checked his notebook and gave Vigdís the phone number from Gulli’s van. ‘And if he is back, find out where he has been. If he isn’t, have a word with all his neighbours. See if any of them have a better idea of where he went.’

Magnus scanned his computer. There was an e-mail from Boston. His buddy in the Homicide Unit had been in touch with the USCIS and the State Department. There was no trace of an Icelandic citizen named Hallgrímur Gunnarsson entering the United States in June or July 1996.

Magnus was surprised to feel a surge of relief. On the one hand he desperately wanted to find who had killed his father. On the other, especially after his conversation with Ollie, he was relieved it wasn’t his grandfather. Too much pain.

‘Sergeant Magnús?’ He looked up. A solid woman of about forty was holding a sheaf of old dusty files. Quite thick. ‘You asked for this? The Benedikt Jóhannesson murder, 1985?’

‘That’s right, thanks for bringing them up.’

She gave him a form to sign, and left the files with him.

He knew he should wait, but he couldn’t help leafing through the pile of paper.

As was his habit, he looked for the pathologist’s report first. It was missing, with a note that it had been signed out to an inspector whom Magnus recognized as a fellow lecturer at the police college.

He debated whether to call the inspector, whom he knew vaguely, to ask him for the file, but decided it would raise less attention if he went through Records. He made a quick call; they said they would track the report down and get back to him.

He had just begun to leaf through the rest of the file when his phone rang.

*

The moment Magnus entered the National Police Commissioner’s office he could tell he was in trouble.

Baldur, Thorkell and the Commissioner himself all looked at him with undisguised hostility.

‘Take a seat, Magnús,’ ordered the Commissioner.

Magnus sat. Outside, over the bay, Mount Esja was bathed in soft morning sunshine. Not a cloud in sight. Inside the Commissioner’s office the mood was distinctly grimmer.

‘I have just had a call from a Chief Superintendent Trevor Watts. He’s with the Counter Terrorism Command of Scotland Yard.’

‘Oh,’ said Magnus.

‘He was curious to know what leads we had regarding Icelanders who had been planning the assassination of Julian Lister. I said we had none. He said that one of my detectives was pursuing that line of inquiry. I said I would get back to him. When I asked Baldur which was the most likely detective Watts was referring to, he suggested you. Was he right?’

‘Yes, Commissioner.’ Magnus reverted to using his superior’s title. Calling him ‘Snorri’, as was the Icelandic convention, no matter how important he was, seemed all wrong.

‘We thought so. Now Baldur informs me that while he did give you permission to investigate possible connections between Gabríel Örn Bergsson, Óskar Gunnarsson and Julian Lister, he made very clear that you were to do it
quietly
. Is that correct?’

‘Yes it is.’ Magnus glanced at Baldur. To be fair to the man he looked more angry than gloating. Magnus didn’t know a chief who wouldn’t be angry in those circumstances.

‘All right. Now, do you understand that alerting a foreign government to the possibility that this country’s nationals were trying to kill one of its leading politicians does not constitute “quietly”?’

Magnus sighed. ‘Yes, I do. I’m sorry.’

‘What were you thinking?’ Snorri said, the anger rising in his voice.

‘It was just a hunch. Sergeant Piper was about to interview a possible Icelandic suspect in London, and I wanted her to check if the suspect was in France when Lister was shot.’

‘A hunch! You started an international incident over a hunch!’ Snorri’s face was going red. His bright blue eyes, which normally twinkled, glinted. He looked dangerous. ‘And was he in France?’

‘No,’ Magnus admitted. ‘But I did ask Piper not to tell anyone else.’

‘Well at least she had some loyalty,’ Snorri said. ‘She told her superiors.’

‘It’s hardly an international incident, is it?’ Magnus said. ‘There’s no proof, no evidence, no firm line of inquiry.’

‘Exactly!’ Snorri slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘And if you were a real Icelander you would know that this is precisely the last thing we want to raise with the British government. You know about the Icesave negotiations that have been going on all summer. We’re talking about billions of euros of debt that every one of us owes to the British. And what you’ve done is throw a hand grenade into the discussion. How do you think the British will react when they think they are dealing with a bunch of real terrorists? This country has been humiliated enough without
this
getting out.’

‘I said it was a hunch, but it is a hunch with merit,’ Magnus said. ‘We can’t turn a blind eye to any links just because it is politically difficult. What if there
are
a bunch of Icelanders who wanted to kill Óskar and Lister? What if they have their eyes on someone else as we speak? We have a duty to check that possibility out.’

‘Don’t lecture me on duty!’ The Commissioner was shouting now. ‘Baldur did the right thing. He told you to keep digging, but do it quietly. You disobeyed him. You are now off the case. I want you back at the college today. And…’ he paused. ‘When this has all settled down I will review whether we need you in this country at all.’

Magnus swallowed. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, Magnús.’ The Commissioner glared at him. Magnus took that as an invitation to leave the room.

*

There was a queue of three people at the bakery when Harpa saw her father come in. Immediately, her heart started racing. What had he discovered? Had Björn really gone to London and France as Frikki’s Polish girlfriend had suggested?

She glanced at him. He smiled reassuringly and stood in the queue. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

The three customers seemed to take for ever. Then a fourth came in, and Einar let her go in front of him. Fortunately Dísa was serving as well.

Finally Einar reached the counter.

‘Well?’ Harpa asked, her eyes wide.

‘I’ll have a
kleina
,’ Einar said, a smile cracking his rocky face.

‘I meant, did you ask about Björn?’

‘I did. And he was out with Gústi on the
Kría
last Tuesday. And on Sunday he spent the morning with Siggi in Grundarfjördur harbour helping him install his navigation software.’

Harpa smiled broadly as the relief surged through her. ‘Thanks, Dad. There’s no doubt about it is there?’

‘No. I spoke to the harbourmaster and to Gústi. I couldn’t get hold of Siggi, but the harbourmaster sounded confident. Apparently Björn had a visit from the police on Sunday as well.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Harpa. ‘Thank you
so
much, Dad.’

Einar leaned forward so that Dísa couldn’t hear. ‘So no need to go to the police then, eh?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I still should?’

‘Oh, come on, Harpa. You’ll just get yourself in trouble.’

‘OK,’ she said, nodding.

‘Good girl. See you later.’

‘Nice to see you smiling for once,’ said Dísa after the door closed behind Einar.

‘Yes,’ said Harpa. The relief was making her giddy. How could she ever have suspected Björn?

‘That your Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Because he didn’t pay for his
kleina
.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Harpa. ‘I’ll pay. We were a little distracted.’

‘I could see that.’

Harpa smiled to herself. Her father had come through for her. Again. To the outside world, to some of his crew for instance, she knew he came across as a tough irascible bastard. But she had always known he was a good man. And it was so comforting to know that that toughness and strength was on her side.

He would do anything for her, and for his wife and for little Markús.

But within a few minutes the euphoria wore off, elbowed aside by a nagging worry. Yes, it was good that Björn wasn’t involved in a plot to murder Óskar and Julian Lister, but that didn’t mean that Sindri wasn’t. Harpa was beginning to regret the promise she had made to her father. He was right, it was none of her business, but if Sindri had killed two people he could kill three. She had to let the police know about her suspicions.

But they were just that, suspicions. What if the police checked them out, discovered Sindri was totally innocent, and also decided to ask more questions about Gabríel Örn? Then she would have achieved nothing and still end up in jail.

But what if she was right? And perhaps jail was where she should be. She had committed a crime, she should pay for it.

Whatever she had told her father, she knew the right thing to do. Tell the police. But first she should speak to Björn. At least now that she knew he was innocent she could talk to him properly about it.

The bakery was quiet. She told Dísa she was going outside to make a phone call.

It was a lovely morning. Above the city the light grey concrete of the Hallgrímskirkja gleamed almost white through its sheath of scaffolding. The bay sparkled. She took a deep breath, dialled Björn and told him what she had decided. He wasn’t happy.

‘Do you still think I flew off to London?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Harpa. ‘I’m sorry I suggested that. I believe you. But I am worried that Sindri is responsible in some way.’

‘You know if you speak to the police they’ll reopen the Gabríel Örn business?’

‘Yes, I know, I’ve thought of that.’

‘OK, so when they do, are you going to tell them what really happened that night?’

‘No. I’ll say that we all went back to Sindri’s apartment. And then I’ll say I called Gabríel Örn and he didn’t show up.’

‘They’ll be all over you,’ said Björn. ‘Once you admit you lied to them, they won’t give up until they break you.’

‘Well, then I just won’t answer their questions,’ said Harpa.

‘They’ll charge you.’ Björn said. ‘You’ll go to prison.’

‘I didn’t intend to kill Gabríel Örn,’ Harpa said. ‘Maybe the judge will understand that. Perhaps I should be in prison.’

‘But, Harpa, there are two crimes here. There’s Gabríel Örn’s death. We know that was accidental and maybe a judge would agree. And then there’s the cover-up. We did that on purpose, you, me, Sindri, the student guy, the cook. They’ll get us for that. All of us.’

Harpa sighed. ‘Maybe I’ll try to tip them off anonymously. But I must find a way of warning them.’

‘Look,’ said Björn. ‘I’ll come right down to Reykjavík now and we can discuss how you do this.’

‘You won’t be able to talk me out of it.’

‘I understand. But don’t do anything till I get there.’

T
HE SHOP WAS
one of several with
Til Leigu
signs displayed on Laugavegur, meaning ‘For Rent’. Vigdís remembered the location: it had been the site of a high-end boutique, way beyond Vigdís’s pocket. And everyone else’s in Iceland nowadays, she suspected.

She had spotted the blue VW Transporter outside with Gulli Helgason’s name and number on it, parked on a side street a few metres away, the front wheel half a metre outside the marked parking bay. She walked in to the shop. Three men were stripping the walls of bright orange paint. A radio was playing Jay-Z loudly.

‘Gulli?’

One of the three men turned towards her. He was older than the other two, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair cut very short and strong tattooed arms. He would have been quite attractive, if it wasn’t for his belly thrusting out aggressively beneath his painters’ overalls.

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Detective Vigdís from the Metropolitan Police. I called earlier. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’

The man laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You’re not a cop.’

‘And why not?’ said Vigdís.

‘It’s obvious. You’re black. You can’t be a black policewoman. So who the hell are you?’

Vigdís fought to control herself. She was used to people doubting
her identity, but rarely so blatantly. She pulled out her ID, and thrust it in his face. ‘See that? A black face. My face.’

Gulli raised his hands in mock surrender and then held out his wrists as if he was about to be handcuffed. ‘OK, OK. I’ll come quietly.’

‘Very funny.’ Vigdís turned to the other two younger painters who were watching with grins on their faces. ‘You two, outside. And turn the radio off as you go.’

‘Hey! They’ve got work to do,’ Gulli protested.

‘I said, outside.’

The men looked at their boss and then at Vigdís. They shrugged, turned Jay-Z off, and sauntered out into the street.

Vigdís scanned the room. It had been cleared of everything except dustsheets, brushes and tins of paint, as yet unopened. There was nowhere to sit, so they remained standing. ‘Now, where have you been this past week?’

‘Away. On holiday.’

‘Oh, yes? Alone?’

‘No. With my girlfriend.’

‘And where did you go?’

‘Tenerife. In the Canary Islands.’

‘I see. When did you get back?’

‘Yesterday. We started in here this morning.’

Vigdís pulled out her notebook. ‘All right. I want your girl-friend’s name and address, and details of your flights and which hotel you stayed at.’

Gulli shrugged and gave them to her. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘We’re taking another look at the death of Gabríel Örn Bergsson last January.’

‘But why do you want to know where I was last week?’