66 Degrees North

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MAGNUS, ÁRNI AND Vigdís were crowded around Vigdís’s desk, watching her monitor. The sound was off: they didn’t want to attract Baldur’s attention unnecessarily.

Magnus had seen snatches of the protests on the news, but never more than a few seconds at a time. Austurvöllur, the square outside Parliament, was full of a seething mass of people, young and old, male and female, shouting and banging. The pots and pans were very much in evidence, as were wooden spoons, tambourines, flags and placards. The camera panned from face to face, each one flushed with varying combinations of anger, excitement and cold. Apart, that is, from those that were hidden by scarves and balaclavas.

‘Look, there’s Harpa,’ Vigdís said. Sure enough, Magnus saw her banging diligently at her saucepan. ‘And there’s Björn.’

The fisherman was only a few yards away from Harpa, yelling his head off and shaking his fist. For a second the camera focused on his face. Björn had seemed a cool customer to Magnus, but at that moment his face was contorted into a fury that verged on hatred.

‘See, they pass within a metre of each other, and they don’t recognize one another,’ said Vigdís.

It was true. Harpa moved in front of Björn, banged her saucepan and then moved on.

‘So this really was when they met?’

‘Hold on, I’ll show you.’ Vigdís fast-forwarded. In jerky movements the crowd surged, missiles were thrown at the police lines and pepper spray canisters were raised.

‘Is that you, Árni?’ Magnus asked.

‘Yes.’ Vigdís paused, and they admired Árni in his black uniform, a look of determination on his face as he raised his yoghurt-splattered shield.

‘That can’t have been fun,’ Magnus said.

‘Especially not since I knew the kid who threw that skyr,’ Árni said. ‘An old girlfriend’s younger brother. I swear he recognized me.’

‘OK, we start spraying the pepper,’ Vigdís said, providing a commentary, ‘Harpa falls over and there! Björn picks her up. From here on they stick together.’

Even from the poor image it was clear from the way Harpa looked at Björn that she was taken with him.

‘All right, this is from maybe quarter of an hour later. See. There they are.’

‘Who’s that guy they are with?’ Magnus asked. Harpa and Björn were moving about together with a tall man with a grey ponytail sticking out underneath a broad-brimmed hat. The man was chatting to all around him, laughing and then shouting slogans. Magnus thought he looked vaguely familiar.

‘That is Sindri Pálsson.’

‘OK, I’ve heard of him somewhere haven’t I?’

‘He’s famous here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.

‘Everyone’s famous in Iceland.’

‘He was lead singer of the punk rock group Devastation in the early eighties. Then he became an all-round troublemaker. Serial protester. Anarchist. Wrote a book about the evils of capitalism. Heavily involved in the protests against the Kárahnjúkar dam. You know, they dammed up a valley to provide hydroelectricity for an aluminium smelter.’

‘I know,’ said Magnus, although that was barely true. He had heard of the controversial project but knew nothing of the details. Once again he felt his ignorance about his own country.

‘He tried to turn the protests violent, but the organizers wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Threw him out.’

‘Criminal record?’

‘Only drugs offences.’

‘But you have a file on him?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s one of the people we identified as capable of trying to turn the protests into a revolution. A violent revolution.’

‘And here he is making friends with Harpa and Björn,’ said Magnus.

Vigdís took Magnus through the rest of the demonstration. As light fell, so did the quality of the images. But there was no doubt that the three kept together.

Then came the tear gas. ‘This is the last image of them we have,’ said Vigdís. Björn, Harpa and Sindri were standing next to the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson. Then they turned and headed off up Hverfisgata. It was only possible to identify them by the shape of their bodies, but they were quite distinctive.

‘Wait a moment, who’s that guy?’ said Magnus. A younger man seemed to be trailing along a short distance behind.

‘No idea,’ said Vigdís. ‘We can’t really see his face. But I can look at other images, see if I can narrow him down.’

‘I bet it’s Ísak,’ Magnus said. ‘Sharon is taking a photograph of him in London now. I’ll get her to send it over.’

‘There will be one on the drivers’ licence registry,’ said Árni. ‘I’ll check.’ This database contained images of every Icelander who had a driver’s licence, and the police had access to it. Useful.

Magnus stood up straight. ‘I take it we have an address for this Sindri?’

‘Hverfisgata,’ said Vigdís. ‘Right by the Shadow District.’

‘Come on, Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘Let’s go talk to him. Árni, get working on those images.’

As they were leaving the office they passed Baldur. ‘Magnús? I thought you were at the police college?’

‘Just come from there,’ Magnus said, with a smile. ‘Got to go.’ And he and Vigdís hurried out of the building.

It was quiet in the bakery. Harpa looked up when the door opened. She recognized the couple who came in.

‘Hi, Frikki,’ she said warily.

‘Hello, Harpa,’ Frikki said. They examined the selection at the counter. Frikki took a kleina and his chubby girlfriend an éclair.

Frikki paid. Harpa gave him change.

Frikki hesitated. His girlfriend stared at him. ‘Did you see the news?’ Frikki said.

‘About the British Chancellor?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did.’

‘Can we talk about it?’

Harpa glanced around. There were no customers in the shop. Dísa was in the back icing a birthday cake. ‘OK,’ she said. They moved over to the table in the corner.

‘Harpa, this is Magda, my girlfriend,’ Frikki said.

‘Good morning,’ the woman said with a foreign accent, Polish probably. She smiled. Harpa nodded.

‘What do you think?’ Frikki asked. ‘About Lister?’

‘However big a bully he is, he doesn’t deserve to die,’ Harpa said.

‘No. No, course not. But, well…’ Frikki flinched as his girlfriend jerked slightly. An under-the-table kick. ‘When we saw it on the news last night it made me think. About that night in January. And…’

‘And what?’

‘Well, perhaps they did it?’

‘By they you mean…?’

‘You know who I mean. The others. Björn. Sindri. The student guy. Them. What if they all got back together and decided to kill Julian Lister? And Óskar?’

‘No,’ said Harpa. ‘Why should they?’

‘Why should they? Well, they were talking about it, weren’t they? I mean, weren’t we? About what we would like to do to the bankers. To Julian Lister.’

‘That was just talk,’ said Harpa.

‘But it wasn’t, was it? I mean what we did to your boyfriend. I mean we…’ Frikki’s voice was wavering.

‘You mean I,’ said Harpa.

‘No. No, Harpa. We. I’ve thought about it a lot. We don’t know which of the two of us actually killed him, do we? Maybe it was you, maybe it was me. I kicked him in the head, after all.’

Harpa’s eyes widened. She had held herself solely responsible for Gabríel Örn’s death. She felt a surge of sympathy for the kid sitting opposite her. She knew what it was like to feel that guilty.

‘Well, I don’t know about the others, but I know Björn didn’t kill them,’ Harpa said. ‘I’ve got to know him very well. He’s a good man.’

‘But what about Sindri? You remember what he was saying. About how the Icelandic people aren’t violent enough. About how they should take physical action.’

‘He was just talking big,’ said Harpa. ‘He was half-drunk. We all were. In fact you were talking loudest of the lot.’

‘I know,’ said Frikki.

‘And anyway, those people were shot abroad, weren’t they? England, France.’

‘It wouldn’t take long to fly there and back,’ Magda said. ‘A fisherman could do it when he said he was out at sea. Go to Keflavík. London or Paris. No problem.’

‘That’s absurd. I know Björn didn’t do that.’

Magda shrugged. There was silence for a moment.

Frikki flinched as he received another kick under the table. Harpa glanced at the Polish girl. She had an open, honest face. Harpa didn’t trust her.

Frikki spoke. ‘The thing is, Harpa. I’m thinking about going to the police.’

‘What! Why would you do that?’

‘Well. Anonymously perhaps. But if all these people are being killed, then who’s to say it will stop now?’

‘No one. But it’s got nothing to do with us.’

‘It has. Believe me, I feel guilty already. If I don’t do something to stop them…’

‘You’re making a massive assumption here,’ Harpa said. ‘It would be one thing if we knew that Sindri or one of the others had killed these people, but we don’t. All we know is that you and I killed someone. And I feel quite strongly we should keep quiet about that.’

Frikki took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to warn you first.’

Harpa turned to the Polish woman.

‘Magda, is it?’

Magda nodded.

‘Listen. I know you think you are Frikki’s conscience, but this isn’t up to you. He’s a good kid. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison for years, which he will do. Maybe I do deserve to be locked up, but I have a three-year-old son. And the others helped us, me and Frikki, cover everything up. Björn in particular helped us. He shouldn’t go to jail.’

‘But we have a duty to stop any more people being murdered,’ Magda said.

‘We don’t know why these people were murdered! We don’t know there is a connection. Óskar and Lister weren’t even in Iceland. We just keep quiet, Frikki, do you understand me?’ Harpa was surprised by the authority she heard in her own voice. ‘And we don’t become friends. We keep well clear of each other. Otherwise we both wind up in jail and achieve nothing. Do you agree? Frikki, do you agree?’

Frikki glanced at Magda who was frowning. Harpa could see how torn she was, between doing what she thought was the right thing, and sending the boy she loved to jail. But it wasn’t up to her. It was up to Harpa and Frikki.

‘Frikki, you’ll never forget what happened,’ Harpa said. ‘But you are still young. You’re not a murderer, you didn’t mean to kill Gabríel Örn. You can still turn your life around. Focus on that.’

Frikki glanced at Magda. She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘OK,’ Frikki said. ‘OK.’

The moment Magnus saw Sindri he remembered where he recognized him from.

Oh, shit.

He wished he had brought Árni along, rather than Vigdís. This could get embarrassing, and Árni was an easier person to be embarrassed in front of.

But Sindri didn’t recognize him. He was full of indignation at being harassed by police in his own home. Magnus could tell that Sindri wasn’t surprised by the visit. On the other hand Sindri was probably used to unannounced visits by the police.

The flat was a dump, and smelled faintly of marijuana, stale tobacco and rotten food. Sindri reluctantly led them into the living room. There was a pile of dirty plates by the sink in the kitchen alcove. A computer in one corner was surrounded by paper on the desk and on the floor. Sindri was obviously working on something which involved a lot of pages.

Sindri sat down at the dining table and folded his arms. ‘All right, what do you want?’ he said. His deep voice was defiant, but there was something friendly about his puffy eyes that he couldn’t quite hide.

Magnus glanced up at the big painting on the wall by the table. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked.

‘I did.’

‘Is it Bjartur of Summerhouses?’

‘Amazing. A cop who reads.’

‘Independent People is a good book.’

‘It’s a great book. Everyone in Iceland should be forced to read it now. In fact they should have read it five years ago. If there were more Bjarturs around and fewer Ólafur Tómassons, this country would be one of the great survivors of the credit crunch.’

‘There’s something in that,’ said Magnus.

Sindri grunted. He obviously didn’t like policemen agreeing with him.

‘We want to ask you about the protests over the winter,’ Magnus said.

‘Oh, yes? It’s a bit late to round up the usual suspects, isn’t it? But there will be more of them, you know,’ Sindri said. ‘The people won’t put up with this Icesave agreement. Why should our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have to repay debts that were incurred by a bunch of crooks we had no knowledge of?’

‘Why indeed?’ said Magnus.

Sindri was off. ‘The government are just bending over backwards for the British and the Dutch. What is all this crap? “The Icelandic nation will always stand by its obligations.” Why the fuck should we? That’s what I want to know. We should tell the British to get their money off the bankers themselves and leave the rest of us out of it.’

Sindri nodded, encouraging himself. ‘I knew this would happen. We have a socialist government now, but what’s the point? They are just like the last lot, but weaker. They haven’t actually done anything. It’s nearly a year since the banks went bust and they still haven’t brought a banker to justice. Not one single one. Yet you guys raided the squat around the corner and threw ordinary people out on to the streets.’

Magnus had heard of the raid, although it took place just before he arrived in Iceland. Drug-dealers, he had heard, and some of them dangerous at that. But he didn’t defend his colleagues.

‘I get it,’ said Sindri. ‘You’re trying to take me out before the new protests start.’

‘Actually, no,’ said Magnus. ‘We want to ask you about one protest in particular. Tuesday the twentieth of January. The day Parliament came back from its recess.’

‘Oh, I remember that one. Or at least the beginning of it. I missed some of the fun later on that night. Left too early. I went out the next day, the Wednesday, though.’

‘Do you know Harpa Einarsdóttir and Björn Helgason?’ Vigdís asked.

‘No.’

‘You were seen with both of them at the demonstration that day. They stuck with you most of the afternoon.’

‘Have you been looking at your surveillance videos?’ Sindri asked. ‘I’ve often wondered what you did with them.’

‘You are seen with Harpa and Björn.’

‘And lots of other people,’ Sindri said. ‘I like to talk to people at these things. You’ve seen the video footage. You know.’

‘So you don’t remember these two?’ Magnus asked.

Sindri paused. ‘Wait a minute. I think I remember Harpa. Dark curly hair? Cute?’

‘That’s right. Have you seen her since then?’

‘No, unfortunately. And I’ve got no idea who this Björn guy is. I went to all the protests. They all merge into one after a while.’

‘Did you go anywhere with them afterwards?’ Magnus asked.

‘No. I was a bit pissed. I came back here, had a bit more to drink. Went to sleep. As I said, it was a shame. Things got a bit more exciting later on, apparently.’

‘Did you come back here alone?’

‘Quite alone.’

‘Harpa and Björn didn’t come with you?’

‘No.’

‘They were seen following you. Where did they leave you?’

‘I really can’t remember,’ said Sindri. He smiled.

A dead end. Sindri knew it. And Magnus knew it.

‘Have you been abroad recently?’ Magnus asked.

‘No,’ said Sindri. ‘Can’t afford it. No one can afford it these days. I went to Germany at the end of last year to publicize my book, but nothing since then.’

‘And where were you on last Tuesday evening?’

‘Um. Let me think.’ Sindri made a show of struggling to remember. But Magnus had the impression that he had an answer already prepared and he was just delaying for effect. That was interesting.

‘I was in a bookshop. Eymundsson’s. A friend of mine was launching his book there. They’ll remember. Why? What am I supposed to have done?’

‘What about yesterday?’

‘Did nothing. Went to the Grand Rokk at lunchtime. Spent most of the day there.’

‘The Grand Rokk?’ said Vigdís. ‘You mean the bar?’

‘Yes. It’s just around the corner.’ Then Sindri’s eyes widened. ‘Wait a minute!’ He jabbed a finger at Magnus. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you. The Grand Rokk.’

‘Possibly,’ said Magnus.

‘Not possibly. Certainly. You’re the guy who lived in America, aren’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Last time I saw you, you were pissed out of your head.’

Vigdís’s eyes darted to Magnus and then back at Sindri.

‘Did anyone see you there yesterday?’ she asked.

Sindri ignored her. ‘I thought you had a bit of an American accent.’ He smiled. ‘“Who loves ya baby?” Isn’t that what Kojak says?’ He raised his thumb and index finger in the sign of a revolver being cocked. ‘“Make my day.”’

Magnus leaped to his feet, kicking back his chair. With two strides he was on Sindri, grabbing him around the collar. Sindri was heavy but Magnus was strong. He wrenched the big man out of his chair and shoved him against the wall.

‘Listen, asshole,’ he said in English. ‘You know what happened to Óskar Gunnarsson and Gabríel Örn Bergsson. And probably Julian Lister as well. Now it seems to me you’ve got a choice to make. Whether you spend the rest of your life in a French jail or a British one. It’s just a shame I can’t find a space for you in Cedar Junction back home. You’d enjoy that.’

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.