66 Degrees North

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HAFNARFJÖRDUR WAS A fishing port on the edge of the lava field just outside Reykjavík, on the way back from the airport. Magnus drove past the enormous aluminium smelter at Straumsvík, where Gabríel Örn’s body had washed ashore back in January. A golf course ran alongside the road, winding higgledypiggledy through the lava, each green like a vivid crater. Magnus turned off the highway.

The harbour was surrounded by a ring of low hills. The town had become a popular location for Iceland’s wealthier middle classes, and some of the houses had exchanged hands at sky-high prices a couple of years before. But not any more, of course.

Magnus drove along the ridge until he came across a development still under construction. There was even a crane standing motionless over a half-finished house. Somehow Magnus didn’t think anyone was going to finish the house in a hurry.

Some of the dwellings at the far end of the development were occupied, and it was outside one of these that Magnus checked the copy of the interview with Ísak Samúelsson that Árni had conducted after Gabríel Örn’s death. Once again, Árni’s notes were sketchy. They stated Ísak was a student, although Árni hadn’t recorded where, and that he lived with his parents, one of whom, Samúel Davídsson, was a government minister, or had been in January when the interview had been conducted. Presumably not any longer, since the pots-and-pans revolution.

Magnus got out of his car and walked up to the white singlestorey detached house. It was well designed, with a great view of the harbour, and would have been an attractive place to live, had it not been for the construction site a hundred metres away.

He rang the bell. No reply. He waited a minute and tried again.

The door was opened by a thin woman wearing a headscarf. At first Magnus thought she was an old lady, but as he looked closer he realized she was probably not much older than fifty.

She smiled, a brief flicker of life in a weary face.

Cancer.

‘My name is Magnus, I am with the Metropolitan Police,’ Magnus said, fudging his official status a bit. Fortunately the Icelandic police were less scrupulous about introducing themselves and flashing badges than their American counterparts. ‘Can I speak to Ísak?’

‘Oh, he’s not here,’ the woman said. ‘He’s at university.’

‘On a Saturday?’ Magnus asked. ‘Is he in a library?’ Magnus hoped he was: it would be easy enough to track him down.

‘Oh, no.’ The woman smiled again. Magnus warmed to that smile. He hoped that her condition was a result of chemotherapy rather than the cancer itself. Of course there was no way of knowing and he couldn’t ask. ‘He’s in London.’

‘London? He’s at university in London?’

‘Yes. At the London School of Economics. He has just started his final year.’

Magnus inwardly cursed Árni. He wondered whether Reykjavík’s finest detective had never found out where Ísak went to university, or had found out but decided that it wasn’t important enough to make a note of. Either eventuality was pretty bad. Moron.

‘I assume you are his mother?’

The woman nodded.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? It’s in relation to the death of Gabríel Örn Bergsson back in January.’

‘Of course, come in,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Aníta. Let me get you some coffee.’

‘Please don’t bother,’ said Magnus.

‘Nonsense. It’s one of the few things I can still do. My husband is playing golf: he won’t be back for hours.’

Magnus took off his shoes and followed Aníta into the kitchen where a pot of coffee was waiting. Agonizingly slowly she poured a cup for him. They sat at the kitchen table.

The woman seemed to be tired out already. Magnus resolved to get through his questions as fast as possible. ‘So Ísak was a student in London last year?’

‘Yes. He came back home for Christmas. And he was very interested in the demonstrations. Although term had started at the LSE he came back just for the opening of Parliament. He said it was a historic moment and he wanted to be there. I suppose he was right.’

‘So he went to the demonstration the day Gabríel Örn was killed?’

‘Yes. His father was furious, of course. He lost his job as a result of the protests.’ Aníta hesitated. ‘You said “was killed”. Didn’t the poor man commit suicide?’

‘Er, that’s what we thought,’ said Magnus. ‘So your son and your husband disagree politically?’

‘You can say that again. Samúel has been a member of the Independence Party since he was eighteen, and Ísak is a committed socialist. They disagree on everything: climate change, the aluminium smelters, Europe, you name it. It’s ironic, really, since they are both so fascinated by politics.’

‘How radical is Ísak?’ Magnus asked.

Aníta paused. ‘That’s an interesting question,’ she said. ‘By today’s standards, I suppose he is radical. I mean most of his friends want to go off and become bankers or go to law school. Or at least wanted to until this year. But Ísak still reads Marx and Lenin, although I don’t think he’s a communist or anything. Compared to my generation he’s just mildly to the left. Iceland has changed, hasn’t it?’

‘It certainly has,’ said Magnus.

‘Perhaps it will change back,’ Aníta said. ‘To the way it was. I hope it does before…’

Magnus was about to say ‘before what?’ when he realized the woman was referring to her cancer. She was growing greyer by the minute in front of him. He would be quick.

‘Did Ísak know a woman by the name of Harpa Einarsdóttir? She used to work at Ódinsbanki?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I suppose he might do, but most of his friends are still at university. Was she the woman he had a fight with in the bar?’

Magnus nodded.

‘No. That was the first time he met her.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know what he was doing. He had never done anything like that before. He drinks sometimes when he’s out with his friends at weekends, but he never gets into fights. It must have been the excitement of the demonstration.’

‘What about Björn Helgason, a fisherman from Grundarfjördur?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ Aníta said. ‘One or two of his friends from school might have become fishermen, but he never mentioned anyone going to Grundarfjördur.’

And Björn Helgason was probably ten years older than Ísak, Magnus thought. ‘Or Óskar Gunnarsson? The former chairman of Ódinsbanki. He has lived in London for the past year.’

‘The banker who was murdered this week?’

Magnus nodded.

‘But I thought you were asking about the other banker’s suicide? You don’t think Ísak had anything to do with that man’s murder, do you?’

The distress came through strongly in her voice.

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘No, not at all. I’m just trying to establish connections, that’s all.’

‘Well, the answer to your question is “no”. My son has never mentioned Óskar Gunnarsson.’

Magnus decided it was time to wrap things up. As he was leaving, Aníta, who had been frowning deeply, suddenly brightened. ‘Oh, there is one thing. Ísak was here this week. He came home on Monday and flew back to London yesterday. Óskar Gunnarsson was killed at the beginning of the week, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Tuesday night.’

‘So that means Ísak couldn’t have been involved.’

‘I never suggested he was,’ said Magnus, apologetically.

‘Maybe not. But you were thinking it, weren’t you?’

As Magnus left Hafnarfjördur he thought about Ísak. It was a bit of a coincidence that he was a student in London. Magnus believed that Ísak’s mother really had no idea of a connection between Ísak and Óskar, and he was pretty sure that her son was indeed in Iceland when Óskar had been shot. But she was wrong when she said that didn’t mean he was involved. Maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but it was quite possible that he had had something to do with the person who had.

Harpa was definitely linked to the two dead bankers. In Ísak’s case, the connections were much more tenuous, but still enough to alert Magnus’s interest. The next person to check out was Björn Helgason.

Magnus had the report of Árni’s interview with him in the car. It was probably three hours from Hafnarfjördur to Grundarfjördur, but it was a Saturday and he didn’t have anything else to do. But first he decided to drop in on Björn’s brother Gulli, with whom Harpa and Björn had stayed the night of Gabríel Örn’s death.

Once again checking Árni’s scanty notes, Magnus drove to the address in Vesturbaer, just behind the Catholic Cathedral. He parked outside a square grey three-storey building, and rang the bell marked Gulli. No reply.

He had just tried again, when a young woman in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie took out a key to the building.

Magnus stopped her and introduced himself. ‘Do you know Gulli Helgason who lives in Flat Three?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes I know Gulli,’ she said. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing,’ said Magnus, his suspicions aroused. ‘Does he often get visits from the police?’

‘Oh, no,’ said the woman, looking confused. ‘No, not at all. He’s a nice guy, actually. Good at fixing things. Helps out the neighbours, especially the old lady on the ground floor.’

‘Do you have any idea when he’s likely to be back?’ Magnus asked.

‘No. I’m pretty sure he’s away on holiday. I haven’t seen him for a few days and his van has been parked there for a while. Hasn’t moved.’

She nodded towards a blue VW Transporter, with Gulli Helgason’s name and phone number painted on the side panel.

‘He’s a decorator, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. He used to be very busy, but not any more. With the kreppa.’

‘No, of course,’ said Magnus. Painters and decorators would have been hit hard, he supposed. ‘Thanks for your help.’

According to his notes, Árni’s interview with Gulli back in January had confirmed that Björn had been staying with him, and that Gulli had seen Harpa at the flat the morning after Gabríel Örn’s death. It was unlikely that a further interview would reveal more, but you never knew. Magnus would be back.

After jotting down Gulli’s phone number, Magnus returned to his car and the long drive to Grundarfjördur.

Harpa walked rapidly along the edge of the bay, head down. The sun was out and the clouds had lifted off Mount Esja, but she scarcely noticed. She had been shaken by the return of the detective Magnús with the policewoman from Scotland Yard. Now the police knew about Óskar and about Markús, they wouldn’t leave her alone.

She had been distracted all morning, and eventually Dísa had given her an hour off. Harpa had explained that the police were asking about Gabríel Örn’s suicide, and that she was the banker’s former girlfriend. Dísa listened with sympathy, but Harpa could detect a hint of suspicion. Dísa was clearly wondering why in that case the police had asked her where Harpa was on Tuesday and Wednesday.

It was bad enough having to lie to Dísa, or at least to conceal the truth. But it was Markús that Harpa was having real problems with. She couldn’t look him in the eye. She couldn’t look her own son in the eye!

He had begun to realize something was wrong. Usually so well behaved, he had started to act up. That would only get worse.

And now that the police knew that Óskar was his father, it would be impossible for Harpa to keep that quiet. Markús would find out in the end, as would Óskar’s family. Maybe even the press. And then, eventually, he would discover that his mother was a murderer.

Harpa had a strong bond with her son. The fear that that might be shattered terrified her.

She was desperate to call Björn. But he was out in the middle of the Atlantic somewhere.

She couldn’t go on like this. She should put an end to it all. Go to the police station and confess everything. Face up to what she had done. She hadn’t meant to kill Gabríel, the judge would understand that. Perhaps she would be found guilty of manslaughter instead of murder. She would go to jail, but not for the rest of her life. This was Iceland after all, with its famously lenient legal system.

But they would arrest Björn as well. He would probably be locked up as an accessory or conspirator or whatever they called it, as would the others who had helped her, even that student, Ísak, who had been suspicious of her at first. They had done so much for her, she couldn’t betray them now.

And what about Markús? Sure, her mother would look after him, look after him very well, but Harpa couldn’t bear the thought of missing him grow up.

She took a deep breath. Somehow she would have to get through this, stick to her story, keep her wits about her, keep herself out of jail. Somehow she would have to find the strength to do that.

She sniffed. The moisture on her cheeks cooled in the crisp air. She hadn’t even realized she was weeping. She was falling apart.

It was strange. She used to think of herself as a tough woman, smart and tough. You had to be to get on in Ódinsbanki. Although there were women in all jobs in Iceland, the banks had a macho culture. Work hard, play hard. They won deals because they were quicker than everyone else and they were ready to take risks that other banks wouldn’t. Óskar had insisted that they all read his favourite book, Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, with its thesis that the best decisions were those taken by instinct in seconds. Harpa had kept up, helped, she had to admit, by Gabríel Örn. They were a team: Harpa was his analytical muscle, he had the aggression and ruthlessness to close the deals.

And they had been fun, those glory days, she couldn’t pretend they hadn’t been. The trips to the Monaco Grand Prix, the yachts in the Mediterranean, the birthday parties in Barbados, following Manchester United Football club to exotic cities around Europe. It was only after going out with Gabríel for three months that Harpa realized he had supported Liverpool all his life, at least until he joined Ódinsbanki and discovered that Óskar followed Manchester United.

But she wasn’t much better. She hated football. She just didn’t let anyone at work know that.

Then there were the salmon fishing trips back in Iceland. That was corporate entertaining on a spectacular scale. Fly the clients to Reykjavík by private jet, and then from the City Airport to the river by helicopter. Each client had his own gillie, and even the most cack-handed could land a salmon. Her father had been so jealous. And proud.

She smiled.

But it was never going to last. In her heart of hearts she had known that. She had argued furiously with Gabríel over the car dealership deal, and the chain of shoe shops, both in Britain, both now bankrupt. And there were several others that she had serious doubts over. They would do fine while the economy was growing, but come a recession and they wouldn’t be able to meet their interest payments. That was a feature of nearly every deal Ódinsbanki did.

They were winging it. And when the recession did come, everything crashed at once.

She knew that would happen. While the others had such boundless optimism, such faith in their own abilities that they thought they had defied the laws of boom and bust, she never really believed it. Yet she had still followed them blindly.

Something else to feel guilty about.

She approached the harbour. She saw Kaffivagninn and smiled. She had had a part-time job there as a waitress for a few years when she was at school. She used to love to hang around the harbour. Her favourite job was cleaning out the Helgi, her father’s boat. Sometimes she would find coins and she would be allowed to keep them. It was ironic, at school people saw her as a ‘quota princess’, but in reality her father made her earn all her money.

Of course, that was the real reason she had liked to hang around the harbour, to be near him. She didn’t see him for days at a time. He would often arrive home after she had gone to bed, and be off again before she had woken up. But he loved her. His love for her was always unquestioning. It was to please him that she had worked so hard at school, that she had got a job in a bank, that she had earned so much money.

She was amazed that he had forgiven her for losing him all his savings. He had a hot temper and bore grudges, and his money was extremely important to him. She had been terrified that he would never forgive her.

But he had. Over time she realized that he had decided that she had been duped as well, that in his eyes she was just as much a victim as him. While this wasn’t true, Harpa was extremely grateful.

She looked at her watch. Only ten minutes until she was due back at the bakery. She didn’t want to abuse Dísa’s kindness, so she hurried to the bus stop and caught a number 13 back to Seltjarnarnes.