66 Degrees North

CHAPTER FORTY

ÁRNI WAS DRIVING back to Reykjavík from Hafnarfjördur, having spoken to both of Ísak’s parents and learned nothing. They were as mystified as the police as to their son’s whereabouts. The mother especially had sensed that something was seriously wrong, but Ísak had been totally uncommunicative.

Árni was almost back at police headquarters on Hverfisgata when his phone rang. It was Baldur. ‘Árni, get over to Seltjarnarnes right away. We know who the assassin is. Harpa’s father. Einar.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘OK. Don’t make an arrest until the uniformed back-up is there.’

‘What am I arresting him for?’

‘The murder of Óskar Gunnarsson. We’ll start with that and work up from there.’

Blue-light time. It took Árni longer than he would have liked to fix it to the roof of his unmarked Skoda, but then he was off. He put his foot down and sped through the Reykjavík traffic, a tense grin on his face. He swerved as he almost caught a motorbike he hadn’t seen in the oncoming lane. He checked the mirror. The guy had come to a stop but hadn’t actually fallen off.

He slowed down as he approached the Bakkavör turn-off. It was lucky he did, because he caught sight of Einar stepping out of his Freelander and going into his house.

Árni slowed to a stop, just as two patrol cars swerved into the road behind him, sirens off, fortunately. Árni waved them down.

‘The suspect has just gone into his house! Come on!’

‘Hold on a moment.’ One of the officers was on the radio. ‘They want us to hold off. They think he’s armed. We wait for the Viking Squad.’

So Árni waited in his car fifty metres along from Einar’s house. He had the front door covered: there was no way Einar could leave without Árni spotting him. The two patrol cars were joined by another one, and they retreated around the corner to lurk.

Everyone was waiting for the Viking Squad, Reykjavík’s SWAT team made up of volunteer officers from across the Metropolitan Police. Árni was disappointed not to make the arrest himself, but it would be cool to see the SWAT team in action.

Then his phone rang. It was Baldur. ‘Árni? I want you back at the station.’

‘But Einar-’

‘The Viking Squad will arrest him as soon as they get there. I want you back here now. We need to figure out who the next target is. Róbert will relieve you.’

Árni saw his colleague approaching in another unmarked Skoda. Reluctantly, Árni turned his own car around and headed back to the station.

They had almost reached Helgafell when Magnus’s phone rang. Baldur.

‘Árni has spotted Einar. He has just returned home.’

‘Has he arrested him?’

‘We’re calling in the Viking Squad. Einar is probably armed.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said Magnus. ‘I could have used some of their help an hour ago.’

‘Any luck on the next victim?’

Magnus glanced at the woman next to him. She was staring out of the window at the little hill of Helgafell coming ever closer, her hand to her mouth, her face stricken with anguish.

‘Harpa doesn’t know. Ísak is still unconscious so he hasn’t talked.’ Magnus was about to add that they wouldn’t hear anything more from Björn, but with Harpa listening he decided not to.

‘Is Ísak going to make it?’

‘You never know with head injuries, do you?’

‘Well, at least we know where Einar is. He’s unlikely to do much damage while he is at home, and we’ll grab him as soon as he tries to leave.’

‘If he’s the only other conspirator,’ said Magnus.

‘Do you think there’s another one?’ said Baldur.

‘I don’t know. We mustn’t assume that there isn’t. Let me know when you have arrested Einar.’

Magnus thought through the possibility. Had it been Einar who had shot Óskar and Julian Lister? Or someone else?

‘Harpa?’

‘Yes?’

‘Does your father speak English?’

‘Not really. Just a few words. Why?’

So that meant he wouldn’t be able to make his own preparations for the shootings in France or England.

‘Has he been away over the last couple of weeks?’ Magnus asked, as gently as he could.

Harpa stared away from him, out of the car window, at the new little houses on the outskirts of Stykkishólmur. ‘Yes,’ she said, barely audibly. ‘He went fly-fishing. Twice.’

‘Does he go hunting as well as fly-fishing?’

She nodded, still not meeting his eye. ‘He used to go reindeer hunting in the highlands when he was a bit younger and he could afford it.’

Reindeer were not indigenous to Iceland, but they had been introduced in the eighteenth century and now roamed wild over parts of the interior. Where they were hunted. With rifles.

‘Does he have a gun at home?’ Magnus asked.

Harpa nodded. ‘I’m sure he has a licence.’

Magnus called Baldur back and told him. The Viking Squad was a good precaution.

‘I can’t believe Dad is doing this,’ Harpa said. ‘I mean, I know he hates the bankers. He lost all his savings in Ódinsbanki. And he likes to bear grudges. But the worst thing is I think he did it for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He thought the bankers had ruined my life. Gabríel Örn. Óskar. He should have blamed me for suggesting that he put his savings into Ódinsbanki shares, but he seems to have blamed them for deceiving me.’

‘But that’s true, isn’t it?’ Magnus said. ‘They did.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t ask him to do it, did I?’ Tears were running down her cheeks now. ‘Björn must have suggested it. Dad and Björn. I knew they liked each other; they used to meet up at the Kaffivagninn sometimes. But I had no idea what they were talking about. None.’

Magnus tried to give her a comforting smile. He did feel sorry for her. The two people she loved most in the world had turned out to be murderers. And she had had no warning.

She tried to smile back. ‘You know,’ she said, wiping her cheeks, ‘from what Björn was saying, I’m not sure my father, or whoever, is going to shoot someone.’

‘What do you mean?’ Magnus asked.

‘Björn was vague about the timing. Yet he was expecting a text when everything was ready. What did he mean by “ready”?’

‘I get you,’ said Magnus. He followed Harpa’s idea through. It could be that there was someone else. Unlikely but possible. Or Einar could have found a spot where he was watching a target and waiting for the ideal time to shoot. In which case, why would he go back home?

What threat was there that would apply while a killer was safe and sound in his own living room?

Poison? No. A bomb?

A bomb.

If there was a bomb primed and ready somewhere in Reykjavík they really were in trouble. They had no clue which of the Outvaders was the intended victim.

Magnus had an idea. He called Páll, but no reply. Which meant he must still be by the hut, out of reception. With the help of one of the uniformed constables he got hold of him on the police radio.

‘Páll, where are you?’

‘Securing the scene.’

That made sense. The hillside was the scene of a murder, after all.

‘Can you check the hut? See if there’s a notebook or anything.’

‘Shouldn’t I wait for forensics?’

‘No, do it now. We know who killed Björn. We need to know who the next target is.’

Páll hesitated. ‘OK.’

‘Let me know what you find.’

The car pulled into the car park outside the police station on the edge of Stykkishólmur. Magnus let the others go ahead and waited in the car for the call back. Four minutes, maybe five. He was feeling nauseous. It was a sensation he remembered from football games in high school. The after-effects of concussion.

His phone rang.

‘OK. I checked the hut. There are no notes anywhere.’

‘Nothing? Not a laptop?’

‘No. There’s a book, that’s all. Looks like he was reading it.’

Magnus was disappointed. ‘OK. What’s the book?’

‘Independent People by Halldór Laxness.’

‘That figures,’ said Magnus. He sighed. ‘All right, Páll. Can you do one more thing? Einar might have sent Björn a text, in which case he probably hasn’t received it yet. Can you get his phone and go back up the pass until you get reception?’

‘Roger.’

Independent People. Magnus remembered the painting of Bjartur in Sindri’s apartment. Sindri had obviously encouraged Björn to read the book too. It was a shame that such a good book could be used to justify such twisted ideas.

Magnus had read it when he was about eighteen. He probably hadn’t appreciated it then, he should reread it.

His phone rang. It was Árni, not Páll.

‘What’s up? Have they got Einar yet?’ Magnus asked.

‘Not yet. They’re waiting for the Viking Squad.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Árni. ‘I’ve been ordered back to headquarters. Did you find Björn?’

‘I did. I’ll explain later,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now, I’m expecting a call.’ He cut Árni off.

Páll came back on the radio.

‘Got the text. It was from Einar. One word. “Ready.”’

‘Thanks,’ said Magnus. He got out of the police car, his brain racing. So Einar was ready. But ready for who? Who the hell was the next victim?

Wait a moment.

Independent People. Wasn’t one of the characters in the book called Ingólfur Arnarson? Yes, that was right.

Who was he? The son of the local landowner Bjartur had worked for? Something like that. Magnus strained to remember. The boy had been named after the first settler of Iceland by his mother, who was a nationalist and a bit of an intellectual snob.

Sindri was talking about the character in Halldór Laxness’s book, not the man who had landed in Reykjavík a thousand years ago.

OK, so which of the Outvaders was he? Magnus couldn’t remember much about Laxness’s Ingólfur Arnarson, except that he became rich.

He needed to find out quickly. Who would know?

Ingileif. It was one of her favourite books.

He took a deep breath and dialled her number.

She answered quickly. ‘Hi, Magnús.’ Her voice was flat. Not pleased to hear from him.

‘Ingólfur Arnarson,’ Magnus said. ‘I know who he is. Or at least which character. He’s the man in Independent People. The landowner’s son.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingileif. ‘That makes sense, I suppose.’

‘I don’t remember the book well. How can we figure out which one of the businessmen he represents?’

‘Well, I’m not sure he represents any of them,’ Ingileif said.

‘What do you mean? He must do. He was very rich, wasn’t he? Didn’t he buy a new car or something? The first in the region?’

‘Yes, he was rich. But he was involved with the Cooperative movement. That’s where he got all his influence. Hardly a greedy capitalist, in fact the merchants were his rivals. He put them out of business. Then he went off to Reykjavík.’ There was silence on the phone.

‘Ingileif?’

‘Oh, my God. I know who they mean!’

‘Who?’

‘In Reykjavík Ingólfur Arnarson became a director of the National Bank, and then its governor. And then Prime Minister.’

‘Ólafur Tómasson!’ The Prime Minister until the pots-and-pans revolution. The former leader of the Independence Party. And onetime governor of the Central Bank.

‘That’s right,’ said Ingileif. ‘But, Magnús?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you wait a moment? Just a minute. I need to talk to you. I think I will go to Hamburg. I’m just about to call Svala now.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Ingileif, we’ll have to discuss this later,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ve got to go.’

For a second he wondered whether he had made a mistake cutting her off like that.

Then he called Baldur.

He outlined his fear. That the next victim was Ólafur Tómasson and the means could be a bomb.

‘Are you sure?’ Baldur asked.

‘Of course I’m not sure,’ said Magnus. ‘But you need to tell him to be careful. Does he have protection?’

‘He did until two months ago. Then we pulled it. Cost savings.’

‘Well, you had better get it back, pronto,’ said Magnus and hung up.

He was standing alone in the car park. The Stykkishólmur police station was a more substantial building than its Grundarfjördur counterpart, as befitted a regional headquarters. A small white concrete office block, shared with the district court.

He hesitated before entering. There was nothing more he could do, was there? He would have to rely on Baldur to get the message out. That might take several minutes, even longer if there were approvals to go through, people to talk to, decisions to be dithered over. Maybe they would decide once again that Magnus was operating on no more than a hunch.

Magnus remembered that the former Prime Minister lived in one of the houses on the shore of the Tjörnin, the bird-strewn lake right in the heart of Reykjavík. If Árni was driving from Seltjarnarnes to police HQ, he was right there.

Magnus called him.

‘Árni, where are you right now?’

‘On the Hringbraut, just coming up to the university.’

That was just a few hundred metres from the Tjörnin.

‘OK. Listen closely and do exactly as I say.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You know where Ólafur Tómasson lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. We believe he is the next victim. Probably from a bomb. I want you to go to his house and get him and his family out of there. Don’t let him touch any packages and above all don’t let him get in his car. You got that?’

‘Are you sure about this, Magnús? He’s an important guy.’

‘Which is why they want to blow him up.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Árni.

Good man, thought Magnus. Ólafur was famously irascible, especially since he had been forced out of office, and he wouldn’t take kindly to being pushed around by a skinny detective.

Tough.

Blue light again.

Árni put his foot down on the accelerator, swerved round the roundabout in front of the university and in less than a minute was speeding along the road on the edge of the Tjörnin. The houses along the lake were some of Reykjavík’s most majestic, and Ólafur Tómasson’s was at the northern end near the City Hall.

As he neared the house he could see the familiar tall, gaunt figure of the man himself. He was standing by the door of his Mercedes. Opening it. Getting in.

Árni leaned on his horn. But that might not be enough to prevent Ólafur from turning on the ignition.

Ólafur’s car was parked in the driveway outside his house, facing downhill towards the road and the lake. Árni had to do something in the next couple of seconds that would persuade Ólafur not to insert his keys in the ignition, but to get out of his car.

There was a blonde woman pushing a buggy along the pavement by the lake, pointing at the ducks. Blaring the horn all the while, Árni swerved and aimed straight at her. He saw, rather than heard her scream. At the last second he changed direction and hit a tree. The airbag exploded and smashed into his face.

He heard the mother’s screams and the sound of shouting and running feet.

He opened his car door, extricated himself from the airbag and staggered out on to the pavement.

‘What the hell do you think you were doing driving that fast?’

Árni turned to see the angry face of the former Prime Minister of Iceland yelling at him.

He smiled.