Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Does it make you angry that Harpa keeps secrets from you?’

Björn stared hard at Magnus. His blue eyes were remarkably bright. And angry. But Magnus got the impression it was with him, not with Harpa. ‘No.’

‘Björn. Where were you on Tuesday night?’

‘Let me guess. Was that when Óskar was killed?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘I was out at sea that day. Got back about seven. A good catch, lots of mackerel. Helped unload and clean up. Came home.’

‘And Wednesday morning?’

‘Went out again, early in the morning. Same boat. The Kría . She’s out right now, but she’ll be back later this afternoon. One of the regular crew had flu. Gústi is the skipper. Páll knows him.’ He nodded to the constable. ‘He can check with the crew. And actually on Tuesday night I went to the fishing company’s office to pick up some pay they owed me. You can ask Sóley, she’ll tell you. In fact they probably have it written down.’

He stared at Magnus. ‘So I wasn’t in London shooting bankers.’

‘Did you get what you needed?’

Magnus and Páll were walking back along the quayside towards the police station.

‘He’s a cool customer,’ Magnus said. ‘It’s hard to say whether he’s telling the truth. If he wanted to lie, he could do it well, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll check out his alibi,’ said Páll. ‘But I bet it will stand up. Which means he can’t have shot that banker.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Magnus. ‘But be thorough. In a small town like this, people could easily cover for their friends.’

‘Gústi is an honest man,’ said Páll. ‘In fact, I’d have to say that Björn has a very good reputation here.’

‘Tell me,’ Magnus said. ‘Do you know him well?’

‘Quite well. As you say, this is a small town. He had his own boat, the Lundi. Bought it off his uncle. He was very successful, bought up more quotas, worked long hours. But he did it all on borrowed money, and when the kreppa came he had to sell. Since then he’s been crewing on other people’s boats whenever he can.’

‘Have you seen Harpa around?’

‘I think so. Curly dark hair? About one eighty high?’

Magnus was only just getting used to thinking metric again. Heights still confused him, but that sounded about right. ‘That’s her.’

‘She’s been here a couple of times.’

‘Does Björn ever get into trouble?’

‘No. Not here at any rate. I think he used to go down to Reykjavík to party every now and then. He stays with his brother Gulli down there.’

They walked on.

‘Magnús?’

‘Yes?’

‘I can’t imagine Björn murdering anyone.’

Magnus paused and looked at the constable. He had a bit of a belly and an imposing moustache, but he had kind eyes. And they were troubled.

‘Is Björn a friend of yours?’ Magnus asked.

‘No. Not exactly. But…’

‘But what?’

‘Did you have to tell him about his girlfriend’s son? I mean that the father was a banker? What does that really have to do with the police? Isn’t that a secret she has a right to keep from her boyfriend if she wants to?’

Magnus felt a flash of irritation. In a town like this, with a population of a thousand people, two thousand max, the loyalty of the local cop was more likely to be with his buddies than with a detective parachuted in from the big city.

But then Magnus needed Páll.

‘Murder is always painful. To the victims, to their friends and family, obviously, to all kinds of other people. Murder investigations hurt witnesses. I know you like Björn, and I hear what you say about him being a good guy. But we’ve just got to ask the questions. Every now and then we piss people off, good people. Although, unlike you, I’m not convinced Björn fits into that category.’

Páll grunted.

They got to their vehicles, Magnus’s Range Rover parked next to Páll’s police car outside the wooden police station.

Ingileif was waiting. She had that air of barely suppressed excitement that Magnus knew well.

‘Good interview?’ she asked.

‘OK, I guess,’ said Magnus. ‘What is it?’

‘Páll, isn’t it?’ said Ingileif, giving the constable her best smile.

‘That’s right.’

‘I assume the town library isn’t open on Sundays?’

‘No.’

‘But you know the librarian?’

‘Yes. She’s my wife’s cousin.’

‘Is there any chance that you could get her to open it up for us?’

Páll glanced at Magnus. ‘Why?’

Ingileif looked at Magnus, her eyes shining. ‘When I was wandering around, I remembered something. A Benedikt Jóhannesson short story. I think it’s called something like “The Slip”. I need to show it to you.’

‘Is this police business?’ Páll asked Magnus.

‘No,’ Magnus said.

‘Of course it is!’ said Ingileif. ‘It’s about a murder. At Búland’s Head, fifty years ago.’

Páll raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t get the library open for you, but my wife is a keen reader of Benedikt’s. She’s from around here, and he used to live over by the Berserkjahraun. We’ll see if she’s got the book you want.’

The policeman’s house was on the edge of town: it took all of five minutes to drive there. His wife’s name was Sara, and she did indeed have a copy of Benedikt Jóhannesson’s short stories. Eagerly, Ingileif found “The Slip”. It was only five pages.

She skimmed it and then began to read out loud. A boy was riding a horse along a cliff. He met the man who had raped his sister riding the other way. They squeezed past each other and the boy gave the other man’s horse a shove. Man and horse fell into the sea below.

‘Well?’ said Ingileif, her eyes shining.

‘You think Benedikt pushed my great-grandfather into the sea at Búland’s Head?’

‘Don’t you?’

Magnus glanced at Páll and his wife and their poorly concealed expressions of curiosity. He had blurted out his family’s secrets in front of these strangers without thinking, but it would be useful to learn if there was any local gossip that might cast some more light on those events. So he explained how his great-grandfather had died, and also the chapter in Moor and the Man that suggested that Gunnar had killed Benedikt’s father.

‘I remember that,’ said Sara. ‘It caused a little local scandal when that book came out. I was about fifteen at the time, I remember my parents discussing it. The mysterious disappearance of the farmer at Hraun was still talked about around these parts, even though it had happened fifty years before. And Benedikt’s book hinted at a solution, one that the locals noticed right away. He was murdered by his neighbour. And that was your great-grandfather?’

‘Yes. He lived at Bjarnarhöfn. I hadn’t heard anything about it until recently.’

‘And then of course Benedikt himself was murdered soon afterwards. But that was down in Reykjavík. I don’t think they ever caught whoever did it.’

‘Were there any rumours of a local connection?’

‘No, certainly not. That’s the kind of thing that happens in the big city, isn’t it? Nothing to do with people from around here.’

‘And nothing about Gunnar’s death on Búland’s Head?’

‘No. There were occasional accidents up there, especially in the old days before the road was improved. And of course there were lots of stories about trolls throwing people into the sea.’

‘I bet,’ said Magnus.

‘Are you investigating all this?’ Páll asked Magnus.

‘Only in a personal capacity,’ Magnus said. ‘It’s not official police business by any means. But thank you, Sara, for letting us look at your book. And please keep this to yourselves.’