Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Come on, Harpa,’ said Magnus. ‘You can’t hide what he looks like from us. Markús is his name, right? Just show us.’

Harpa fiddled with the buttons on her phone and passed across a picture of a little boy smiling next to a football on a beach of black sand.

Magnus took a photograph out of his pocket and laid it next to the phone. Despite the differences in age, it was quite clear that Óskar Gunnarsson and Markús Hörpuson were related. The same cleft chin. The same big brown eyes.

Harpa’s shoulders sagged.

‘Did Óskar know?’ Magnus asked.

Harpa shook her head. ‘I never told him. I made sure he never met Markús. I didn’t want him to know.’

‘Why not?’

‘It really was only one night. I was drunk. So was he. I’m not trying to say he forced himself on me or anything, but it was a mistake. We never mentioned it again. The first couple of times we met in a business situation, it was awkward, but then we both succeeded in ignoring what had happened and so things became easier. Until I realized I was pregnant, of course.’

‘Did he suspect he was the father?’

‘He might have done; we never spoke about it. We really didn’t know each other that well, he had no idea what my sex life was like. In fact it wasn’t that exciting, but he didn’t know that.’

‘But when you lost your job, you weren’t tempted to ask Óskar for money?’ Magnus asked.

‘No,’ said Harpa. ‘I didn’t want Markús to have Óskar for a father, however rich he was. We had no connection. And I suppose I didn’t want to share my son with a man I barely knew.’ She leaned forward. ‘Please don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want Óskar’s parents to know they are grandparents. It may sound awful, but I don’t want to introduce people I don’t know into Markús’s life.’

‘I won’t tell them for now,’ Magnus said. ‘I can’t make any promises about later. That will depend on what this investigation turns up.’

‘It won’t turn up anything,’ said Harpa, defiantly.

‘In that case you have nothing to worry about,’ said Magnus.

‘You were fired from Ódinsbanki, weren’t you?’ asked Sharon.

‘Yes,’ said Harpa.

‘Did you hold Óskar responsible?’

‘No. Not directly.’

‘What do you mean, not directly?’

‘Well, it was him who led the expansion of the bank. He grew it too fast, borrowed too much money from the bond markets. That’s why it went bust eventually, and why I lost my job.’

‘So who did you hold directly responsible?’ Magnus asked.

Harpa’s eyes held his. She then closed her own. ‘Oh, God, here we go.’

‘Gabríel Örn?’

Harpa nodded. ‘I’ve told you that.’

Magnus glanced at Sharon. It was too early to do a full-blown interview with Harpa. Apart from anything else, such interviews had to be in Icelandic if they were going to provide admissible evidence. Also Baldur would disapprove. But there was one last question he had to ask. ‘Harpa, where were you on the night Óskar was killed?’

Harpa flinched. ‘He was killed in London, wasn’t he?’

Magnus nodded.

‘Well, I was in Iceland.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘Yes, of course. Um, I came in to work here early the following morning. You can check with Dísa if you want.’

Three-quarters of an hour later, Magnus pulled up outside the airport terminal.

‘Thank you for introducing me to Harpa,’ Sharon said. ‘I appreciate the difficulty.’

‘Her alibi was good for that night,’ said Magnus. ‘But I do think there is some link. I just thought you should know what her story is. In case something turns up your end.’

‘Óskar was an interesting man,’ Sharon said.

‘The press here hate him,’ Magnus said. ‘And his banker buddies.’

‘I can understand that,’ said Sharon. ‘But the people who actually knew him seemed in awe of him.’

‘I guess that’s how he got people to follow him,’ Magnus said. ‘He had success written all over him. But I can’t help getting the feeling that’s why he died.’

‘Are you suggesting he deserved to die?’

‘No, not at all. That’s not for us to judge, is it? And I’ve investigated the murders of far more unpleasant people than Óskar; I’m sure you have too. He hasn’t actually killed anyone himself, has he?’

‘No, but he bankrupted a whole country. Him and his mates.’

‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. Of course Óskar and his buddies hadn’t destroyed the economy on purpose. It wasn’t what you’d call premeditated, more accidental. Manslaughter rather than homicide. But people went to jail for manslaughter.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Sharon asked. ‘Drop the investigation?’

‘Baldur wants me to. But Gabríel Örn’s suicide just doesn’t sound right to me. I’m off duty this weekend. I think I’ll nose around, maybe speak again with some of the people we interviewed after his death.’

‘Keep in touch,’ Sharon said.

‘I will,’ said Magnus. ‘And good luck with Charlie.’

HAFNARFJÖRDUR WAS A fishing port on the edge of the lava field just outside Reykjavík, on the way back from the airport. Magnus drove past the enormous aluminium smelter at Straumsvík, where Gabríel Örn’s body had washed ashore back in January. A golf course ran alongside the road, winding higgledypiggledy through the lava, each green like a vivid crater. Magnus turned off the highway.

The harbour was surrounded by a ring of low hills. The town had become a popular location for Iceland’s wealthier middle classes, and some of the houses had exchanged hands at sky-high prices a couple of years before. But not any more, of course.

Magnus drove along the ridge until he came across a development still under construction. There was even a crane standing motionless over a half-finished house. Somehow Magnus didn’t think anyone was going to finish the house in a hurry.

Some of the dwellings at the far end of the development were occupied, and it was outside one of these that Magnus checked the copy of the interview with Ísak Samúelsson that Árni had conducted after Gabríel Örn’s death. Once again, Árni’s notes were sketchy. They stated Ísak was a student, although Árni hadn’t recorded where, and that he lived with his parents, one of whom, Samúel Davídsson, was a government minister, or had been in January when the interview had been conducted. Presumably not any longer, since the pots-and-pans revolution.

Magnus got out of his car and walked up to the white singlestorey detached house. It was well designed, with a great view of the harbour, and would have been an attractive place to live, had it not been for the construction site a hundred metres away.

He rang the bell. No reply. He waited a minute and tried again.

The door was opened by a thin woman wearing a headscarf. At first Magnus thought she was an old lady, but as he looked closer he realized she was probably not much older than fifty.

She smiled, a brief flicker of life in a weary face.

Cancer.

‘My name is Magnus, I am with the Metropolitan Police,’ Magnus said, fudging his official status a bit. Fortunately the Icelandic police were less scrupulous about introducing themselves and flashing badges than their American counterparts. ‘Can I speak to Ísak?’

‘Oh, he’s not here,’ the woman said. ‘He’s at university.’

‘On a Saturday?’ Magnus asked. ‘Is he in a library?’ Magnus hoped he was: it would be easy enough to track him down.

‘Oh, no.’ The woman smiled again. Magnus warmed to that smile. He hoped that her condition was a result of chemotherapy rather than the cancer itself. Of course there was no way of knowing and he couldn’t ask. ‘He’s in London.’