Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Well, it would probably be more appropriate if you weren’t present while I spoke with María.’

‘More appropriate? I remember how you ended up interviewing me. I wouldn’t want you to use the same techniques on María.’ She exchanged a glance with María, and burst out laughing.

Magnus, as usual, was wrong-footed. Although the first time he had interviewed Ingileif things had been very professional, and in fact Vigdís had been with him at the time, it was true that later he had been friendlier with a witness than he should have been.

He glanced at Vigdís. She was trying not to laugh.

‘OK,’ Magnus said. ‘But don’t interrupt.’ As soon as he had said it he knew how pointless it was.

María showed them into the living room. It was large, elegant in an Icelandic minimalist way, with white walls, blonde polished wood floors and furniture that was made as much of glass as wood. Smooth abstract sculptures twisted and turned as they posed for visitors. The art on the walls was bright, eye-catching and original. Tropical flowers in ones and twos stood proudly out of their vases.

A good client for Ingileif, no doubt.

Magnus quickly took in the family photographs. There were a couple of María with a gaunt man with greying temples, wearing a well-cut suit. Husband. And successful, given the price of the house.

Magnus, Ingileif and Vigdís sat down while María poured coffee. There was a catalogue on the coffee table, open at nursery furniture. María and Ingileif had obviously been looking at it. Magnus surreptitiously checked for a bulge above María’s jeans, but couldn’t see one.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ingileif, nodding towards the catalogue. ‘It’s not for us, Magnús.’

‘I didn’t think it was,’ said Magnus.

‘Yes you did,’ said Ingileif, with an amused smile.

‘It’s me,’ said María. ‘I’m three months pregnant.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Magnus. He cleared his throat in an attempt to gain some control over proceedings. ‘So, María, tell me how you knew Óskar?’

María took a deep breath. ‘Óskar. He was quite a few years older than me. I’m not sure where we met, but I remember first getting interested in him at a dinner at a friend’s house – Birta, you know her, Ingileif?’

Ingileif nodded.

‘It was 2003, six years ago. We all went out later as a group, we danced: I could tell he liked me.’

‘He was still married at the time?’

‘Oh, yes,’ María said. ‘But it was never going to work.’

Magnus raised his eyebrows.

‘Óskar and Kamilla had been going out since high school,’ Ingileif said. ‘Those marriages never last. It’s just a matter of time.’

Magnus threw a glance of disapproval at Ingileif.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Ingileif is right,’ María said. ‘He was on the lookout, I could tell. We ended up sleeping together. It went on a couple of years.’

‘Did his wife know?’

‘I don’t think so. Óskar didn’t think she did, at any rate.’

‘So your relationship was serious?’

‘Yes, it was.’ María faltered for the first time. ‘I really liked him. He was an attractive guy. And he was funny, lively. He had that air of success about him, you know? Everything he touched turned to gold.’ She smiled.

‘I remember he took me to the South of France for a weekend. We stayed in this wonderful hotel high up on the Corniche, with an amazing view of the Mediterranean. We went gambling in one of the casinos in Monte Carlo. I had been making small bets on red and losing mostly. He split my stake into three and slid a third on to number fourteen, my birthday. He lost. So then he pushed the second third on that number and lost again. He raised his eyebrows at me for permission to place the last third and I nodded. I trusted him. And he won! Over a thousand euros. That would never happen to me, but it seemed kind of inevitable with him. He was a winner, you know?’

‘Quite a catch.’

‘I thought so,’ said María. ‘I guess I fell for that classic mistress mistake. I hoped he would leave his wife and marry me.’ She sighed. ‘Then I heard that he had gone off with some slut from his bank’s London office at a party there. I confronted him, he said it would never happen again, but of course it did.’

‘With the same woman?’

‘No, a different woman. I think the first one was genuinely a one-night stand. This other one was in London too. This was before he bought his house in Kensington, but he used to travel there a lot. I realized that that was where he messed around. With two women to hide from in Reykjavík, his wife and his mistress, I guess it made some sense.’

‘When was all this?’

‘About four years ago.’

‘So you dumped him?’

‘I did. And then six months later I met Hinrik.’ She glanced at a photograph of the gaunt man behind her shoulder.

‘Who was a much better bet,’ said Ingileif.

‘Since then you haven’t seen Óskar?’

‘No. I mean I’ve bumped into him at one or two social occasions, but never alone.’ Her lower lip began to quiver. ‘He was a good man. I don’t know whether he committed any technical financial crimes, but I am quite sure he did nothing wrong. He was honest, you know, you could trust him.’ She stared at Magnus, daring him to contradict her. It struck Magnus that a man who could be unfaithful to his wife and then his mistress and still give the impression of being trustworthy, must have had some charisma.

It was strange with murder victims. You never got to meet them, obviously, but you came to know them better and better as the case went on. Óskar was more intriguing the more Magnus found out about him. Was he really the evil banker that the press made out?

Whoever he was, he hadn’t deserved to die.

Vigdís had been taking notes. ‘Do you know the name of this woman?’

‘No, I don’t. He never told me.’

‘Was she Russian?’ Vigdís asked.

‘No. No, she was English. A lawyer, I think.’

‘I see. And the first one? The one-night stand?’

‘The slut? Oh, she was Icelandic all right. She was an employee of Ódinsbanki in London. She’s back in Reykjavík now.’

‘And do you know her name?’ asked Magnus.

‘Yes. Harpa. Harpa Einarsdóttir.’

Frikki stood in the arrivals hall at Keflavík Airport staring at the screen, shifting from foot to foot in impatience. Where the hell was she? The plane from Warsaw had arrived twenty minutes ago. It couldn’t take her that long to pick up her bags and go through customs, could it? Frikki had never flown before, in fact this was his first time at the airport, so he had no idea what happened on the other side of the double swing doors. Perhaps Customs had stopped her? Oh, God! Perhaps Immigration hadn’t let her in to the country?

He couldn’t bear that thought. He bit his thumbnail. Where the hell was she?

He had been overjoyed when Magda had messaged him on Facebook that she had bought a cheap ticket to come and see him. She had been a chambermaid at the Hotel 101 where he had been an assistant chef. He had been distraught when, like him, she had lost her job, because in her case it meant she had to go back to Poland. That had been in early January, just after New Year. Since then they had managed to keep their relationship going, through the wonders of Skype and Facebook. She was a year older than him, and much more sensible. He was a different person when he was with her, calmer, happier. Better.

And in a few minutes he would see her again. If the immigration people didn’t stop her.

At the same time, he was nervous. Since he had lost his job he had let things slip, and she would pick up on that. He had always been a bit of a wild kid, getting himself into all kinds of trouble, until he had gone on that cooking course. He was a natural. More than that, cooking calmed him down, channelled his energy away from getting drunk and causing trouble. He had been so proud to get his job at 101, the trendiest hotel in Reykjavík. And he had done well there. He was a good-looking kid and had no trouble pulling girls, but he was aware that it was his new self-confidence that had attracted Magda.