Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

Tomorrow, he would only get one chance. He would be using a similar rifle, the same model, but not the same weapon. The ammunition was the same, he had checked that, 7 mm Remington. They had examined Google Earth to estimate the range, somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty metres. At two hundred metres the bullet should go pretty much where he aimed it. At one hundred and twenty-five, there would be about a six centimetre rise, meaning he would have to aim a little low, only a little. Six centimetres was not much when compared to the size of a man’s chest.

Since he would be firing an unfamiliar rifle with no time to check that it was zeroed in correctly, he had decided not to use a scope. Plus a scope could get banged about and knocked off zero while the weapon was being concealed. So, open sights. Keep it simple, fewer things to go wrong.

It had been easy with the handgun, even though he had never fired one before that evening. At two metres he couldn’t miss the banker. Everything had been prepared perfectly then: the plan, the weapon, the motorbike. He hoped the preparation would work out as well this time. There was no reason to believe it shouldn’t.

He lay down on the grass, rested the rifle on the stone, and aimed at the petrol container. Then he lowered the barrel a touch to allow for the rise, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the familiar kick in his shoulder, heard the shot echo around the little valley, but saw rock splinter just below the container. A pair of golden plovers took to the air, complaining loudly.

He cursed. He had overcompensated for the rise. He operated the bolt mechanism. Aimed. Fired again. This time the container leapt backwards off the boulder on to the ground beneath. He aimed, fired again. Again the container jumped. And again. And again.

He smiled. He could do this.

‘That was quite a night,’ said Sharon. Magnus and she were sitting in the conference room nursing cups of strong black coffee. She looked like death. ‘It’s a while since I’ve had a night like that.’

‘Traditional Icelandic Friday night,’ Magnus said. ‘Or at least half of one.’

‘Half of one?’

‘Yeah. We went home at about one, I think. A lot of people don’t finish until four or five.’

‘Young people,’ Sharon said. ‘Oh, hi, Vigdís. You don’t look too bad.’

‘ Gódan daginn ,’ said Vigdís with a smile. She was carrying her own cup and took a seat with them. ‘ Og takk fyrir sídast .’

Sharon laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. It’s like last night never happened, is it?’

Vigdís glanced at Magnus. ‘ Já. ’

‘That means “yes”,’ said Magnus. ‘Where’s Árni?’

‘He’s got the weekend off,’ Vigdís said.

‘Was it my imagination, or was my son arrested last night?’ Sharon asked.

‘I think he was,’ said Magnus.

Sharon winced. ‘Can you remember what police station he was at? Did I say?’

Magnus shook his head.

‘Toot,’ said Vigdís.

‘Tooting? What the hell was he doing in Tooting?’

Baldur appeared at the door. ‘Sergeant Sharon? Magnús? Come to my office.’

Baldur was insistent that Sharon had uncovered all she was going to in Iceland, and Sharon herself couldn’t really argue. So Magnus agreed to give her a lift back to her hotel, and pick her up in a couple of hours to take her out to the airport.

Baldur pulled Magnus aside and told him that he should go back to the police college on Monday morning unless anything new cropped up from London. Vigdís could do the remaining work on Sharon Piper’s list of Óskar’s contacts. Magnus protested, but he got nowhere.

It wasn’t far at all from police headquarters to the Hotel Reykjavík, Sharon could easily have walked it. As Magnus pulled up outside he took a decision.

‘Sharon, pack your bag and bring it down here. I think we should leave early for the airport. There’s someone I want you to see.’

‘OK,’ said Sharon, her curiosity aroused. ‘I’ll be ten minutes. I need to ring my husband to make sure Charlie is all right.’

A quarter of an hour later, Magnus was driving along the ring road that skirted the city centre towards Seltjarnarnes. He told Sharon all about Harpa and Gabríel Örn and his suspicions about Gabríel Örn’s death. He also told her about Harpa’s dalliance with Óskar in London.

‘Why didn’t you mention any of this before?’ said Sharon. She sounded offended that Magnus hadn’t trusted her.

‘Baldur didn’t want me to,’ Magnus said. ‘He figures there’s no connection. He wants to make sure there is no connection. And Gabríel Örn Bergsson’s death is firmly filed under suicide. It’s politics. Even in this country politics intrudes in police work.’

He explained the background, the pots-and-pans revolution, the fear of violence, the sense of relief that there hadn’t been any, the unwillingness to rewrite history and admit that there had.

‘I get it,’ said Sharon. ‘So then I suppose the question becomes why are you telling me all this?’

‘It may be nothing,’ Magnus said. ‘In which case you can just forget it. But if there is a real link it’s important that you know about it in case you come across something in London that fits. I want to nail whoever it was who killed Óskar.’

‘OK,’ Sharon said. ‘Let’s meet Harpa.’

The bakery where Harpa worked was on the corner of Nordurströnd, the road that ran along the shore. The wind had died down from the previous day, but there was a chill in the air, and the warmth of the bakery was welcoming. Harpa was one of two women behind the counter, both wearing red aprons and with their hair tied up under white hats.

She tensed when Magnus walked in.

‘Do you have a moment, Harpa?’ Magnus asked.

‘I’m busy,’ said Harpa, glancing at the woman next to her. ‘Can’t you see I’m working?’

‘Would you like me to talk to your boss?’ Magnus said.

Harpa turned to the woman. ‘Dísa? Do you mind if I speak to these two people for a minute? It won’t take long.’ She glanced at Magnus as she said these words.

Magnus nodded.

‘Go ahead,’ said the woman named Dísa, her curiosity aroused.

Harpa led Magnus and Sharon to a table in the far corner of the bakery.

‘Do you mind if we speak English?’ said Magnus. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Piper of Scotland Yard.’ He didn’t think that Sharon actually worked out of Scotland Yard, but it sounded good.

‘That’s fine,’ said Harpa. Magnus was surprised to note a slight relaxing of the tension in Harpa’s shoulders. ‘I’ve told you I know nothing about Óskar’s murder.’ Her English accent was good: British English.

‘Yes, you have told me that,’ said Magnus. ‘Thing is, we know you and Óskar met at a party in London four years ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Harpa. ‘Well, yes, of course we did. I was working in the London office then. The head of the office used to have quite a few parties. I am sure that Óskar will have come to one or two.’

‘I’ve spoken with María Halldórsdóttir,’ Magnus said. ‘She figures you and Óskar got along very well at one of these parties.’

‘That was just a rumour,’ said Harpa. ‘There was nothing in it. María was jealous, that’s all. She’s imagining it.’

Magnus didn’t say anything.

‘What?’ said Harpa. ‘What is it? Don’t you believe me? I wouldn’t be so stupid as to have an affair with the boss.’

Magnus relaxed and smiled. ‘No, of course not. You got a picture of your son, by the way?’

‘Yes,’ said Harpa. ‘On my phone.’ She pulled out her phone and began searching for the photo. Then she stopped suddenly, and made to put the phone away. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I made a mistake. I don’t have a picture of him.’