Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘He was a very special person.’ Emilía hesitated. It was as if the simple question threatened to unleash emotion, which had been Magnus’s intention. But once again she was back in complete control in an instant. ‘Very bright. Energetic. Funny. People liked him. People loved him. Especially the people who worked for him.’

‘What about his enemies?’

‘He didn’t have any enemies.’

‘Oh, come on, Emilía. How could someone like him not have enemies?’

Irritation flared in Emilía’s eyes. She didn’t like being contradicted.

‘Well, there were business rivals, I suppose. But they didn’t hate him. The press loved to gossip about him, but they needed him for their copy. During the demonstrations some of the speakers were asking for his head, but they didn’t really know him.’

‘Clients of the bank? Depositors? Shareholders? A lot of people must have lost money when Ódinsbanki was nationalized.’

‘Yes, that’s true. But I don’t think most people blamed my brother. All the Icelandic banks collapsed: Ódinsbanki was probably the best run of all of them.’

‘What about his personal life? His wife? Or rather ex-wife?’

‘Kamilla? She was devastated when they broke up. He was having an affair and she found out about it. But that was five years ago. More. They’ve got along fairly well since then. He sees the children regularly, or did until this year when he was holed up in London.’

‘He had a Russian girlfriend? Tanya Prokhorova, a Russian model.’

Emilía shuddered. ‘She may have been a model but she certainly wasn’t dumb. Óskar was besotted with her. She was cool and beautiful and played him along. I never liked her. And then of course she dumped him when she realized that he wasn’t quite as rich as she thought he was. He was much better off with Claudia.’

‘The Venezuelan?’

‘Yes. She is much more like him. She has money from her own divorce. She’s actually a year older than him, although she wouldn’t want anyone else to know that. Óskar was much more relaxed around her. I only met her twice, in London, but she was good for him.’

‘Did he know many Russians? Apart from Tanya?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Emilía said. ‘He probably met friends of hers socially.’

‘What about clients of the bank?’

Sigurbjörg, the lawyer, coughed.

Emilía glanced at her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on clients of the bank.’

‘Were there any Russian clients that Óskar dealt with personally?’

Emilía didn’t answer.

Magnus persisted. ‘Any money laundering? Russian businessmen who lost money dealing with Ódinsbanki?’

Sigurbjörg interrupted. ‘These are sensitive issues. The Special Prosecutor is examining the files of all the bank’s customers. Emilía doesn’t want to prejudice that examination.’

Magnus ignored her. ‘Your brother is dead, Emilía. Someone killed him. I want to help the British police find out who that person was. We need to know if there was a Russian connection, especially one via Iceland.’

‘Don’t worry, Sigurbjörg,’ Emilía said. ‘There were no Russian clients. Maybe one or two small ones, but nothing major. Óskar didn’t trust them, it was as simple as that. It was a bank rule: no Russian exposure.’

‘Could Tanya have introduced him to some dodgy businessmen looking for places to park money?’

‘Possibly. Not that I know of. And I would rather doubt it. Those are exactly the kind of people that Óskar would have avoided. I said he was besotted with Tanya, but he never really trusted her.’

‘OK.’ Magnus was half convinced. ‘And your family? Any tensions there?’

‘Oh, Óskar was the golden boy as far as our parents were concerned.’ Emilía said this without rancour or jealousy.

‘Even after the kreppa struck?’

‘Even then. I have another brother and a sister. My brother is pretty tense about suddenly realizing that he isn’t as rich as he thought he was. But he basically idolizes Óskar.’ She swallowed, realizing her mistake. ‘I mean idolized.’

She closed her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek. The cool façade crumbled in front of Magnus. She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Is that everything?’

Suddenly an image of Latasha, a sixteen-year-old girl from the projects in Mattapan came into Magnus’s mind. Her fifteen-year-old brother had been shot in the face on the street just behind their building a few hours before Magnus interviewed her. She was proud, she wasn’t going to help no cops. She was brave. She was cool. Her mother was off her head on crack in the bedroom, her sister needed her diaper changing. It was only when Magnus was about to leave the apartment that a tear ran down Latasha’s cheek and she asked Magnus to find whoever had killed her little brother.

It didn’t take Magnus long: it was her brother’s fourteen-year-old best friend. An argument over a stolen iPod.

Whether it was a kid from the projects, or a cool Icelandic businesswoman, Magnus sympathized with the victims’ relatives. Always.

‘Thank you, Emilía,’ he said. ‘We might come back and ask some more questions later.’

Emilía nodded, tears leaking from both eyes now, and Magnus and Árni left.

Sigurbjörg caught up with Magnus by the lifts. She was several years older than him, about forty, with short red hair and a broad face. Although the hair was a different colour, she reminded him a little of what he remembered of his mother, but she looked older. His mother had only been thirty-five when she had died.

‘Is he your client too, Sibba?’ Magnus asked, nodding at the Viking on the Harley. ‘At least he doesn’t say much.’

‘I’m sorry about my intervention in there,’ Sigurbjörg said in English. She had been brought up in Canada, and like Magnus had returned to the land of her parents when she was an adult. ‘The Special Prosecutor’s investigation into Ódinsbanki is crucially important to OBG.’

Magnus shrugged. ‘You were only doing your job.’ That’s what lawyers did, impeded police investigations. That was the way the system worked and Magnus had given up railing against it long ago.

‘Look, here’s my card,’ Sigurbjörg said. ‘I know I kind of ran off last time we met. But give me a call, eh? Come and have dinner at my house. I would love to introduce you to my husband.’

Magnus took the card and stared at it. The law firm he recognized, and the address was the building they were in, of course. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will.’

He didn’t mean it. He wanted to keep that part of his life safely locked away in its box. Sigurbjörg could tell he didn’t mean it. She looked disappointed.

She took the first lift heading up.

‘Family feud?’ Árni asked, as he and Magnus entered the next one going down.

‘I don’t know,’ Magnus replied, frowning. ‘You could say that.’

‘H ERE THEY COME!’

Sindri looked up at the mountainside and saw a stream of white burst over the ridge, as first a few dozen, then a hundred, and then more than a thousand sheep hurried down the slopes towards the pens. On either side of the flow were the black shapes of the dogs darting, crouching and running to keep control. In a moment a horseman appeared, and then another, and then some more.

It was a magnificent sight.

The crowd, mostly made up of the families of farmers in the dale, pointed and waved. The drovers had been away for three days scouring the highlands for sheep who had spent the summer roaming wild over the fells, gorging themselves on sweet grass. It was the annual réttir , or sheep drive, one of the biggest events in the farming calendar. It was the first time Sindri had attended since he had left the farm at sixteen, but the memories came flooding back.