Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

Seeing his grandfather again after all those years had shaken him. He knew he had been wrong to take it out on Ingileif, but she should have realized that it was time to back off.

He sipped his beer and tried to make sense of it all. His father’s affair with Unnur. The series of deaths spanning fifty years. His father’s own death.

He was very tempted just to ignore everything, focus on today, on Óskar and Gabríel Örn.

But Ingileif was right: he, of all people, couldn’t step back now he was beginning to discover so much.

He needed to do two things. Find out whether his grandfather had been in America when his father had been murdered, and look at the file on Benedikt Jóhannesson’s death in 1985.

His phone beeped. He checked it. A voicemail. He called the number and heard his brother’s voice.

‘Hey, Magnus, it’s Ollie. Just checking in. Call me back when you have a moment.’ The message had been left an hour before, probably when Magnus was out of reception somewhere on the way back from Stykkishólmur.

Ollie. Poor Ollie. Unlike Magnus, who had always been drawn by his Icelandic roots, Ollie had denied them. He was an American through and through: America still provided that service it had offered to immigrants throughout its history, the opportunity to stop being who they were and start being who they wanted to be. Ollie had taken up the offer with enthusiasm.

And given the miserable time he had had in Iceland, who could blame him?

Magnus considered calling Ollie back there and then and telling him where he had been. Perhaps it would give Ollie a chance to exorcize some old ghosts.

Or perhaps not. Magnus couldn’t face talking to him that evening. He’d call back tomorrow. Or the day after.

He finished the beer, and turned on his small TV as he went to the fridge for another one.

It was the news on RÚV, the public broadcasting station. There was a story about Julian Lister, the former British Chancellor of the Exchequer. It seemed to Magnus the Icelanders should let that one go. Sure, they had been treated badly, but Lister wasn’t the cause of their problems, nor was he the solution, especially after he had been dumped by his own Prime Minister.

But there was something about the newsreader’s tone that was not quite right. Magnus glanced at the pictures. An ambulance. A hospital in France.

He sat down and watched.

Julian Lister had been shot twice by an unknown gunman at his holiday home in Normandy. He was in a critical condition at a hospital in Rouen. No arrests had yet been made. Speculation focused on a terrorist assassination attempt with Al-Qaeda the first-choice suspects and Irish Republicans second, but the French police were making no comment.

There are going to be some Icelanders that will be happy to hear that, thought Magnus.

Then he thought a little harder.

No. There couldn’t be a link between Gabríel Örn, Óskar and Julian Lister, that was too far-fetched. Besides, Magnus had seen Björn and Harpa in Iceland that weekend, so there was no chance that they had shot anyone in France. He was letting his desire to get involved in an interesting murder case get the better of him.

And yet.

February 1985

Benedikt Jóhannesson sat on a rock and stared across the black causeway towards the Grótta lighthouse on its own little island. Behind it, swirls of grey cloud shifted and jostled as a strong cold breeze blew in from the Atlantic and the breakers crashed against the volcanic sand. He was alone.

Good.

Hunched into his parka, he opened the pack of cigarettes he had just bought and tried to light one. It took him a while in the wind, he was out of practice. Eventually it caught and he took a deep drag, suppressing the urge to cough.

That tasted good.

Sixteen hours after stumbling out of the hospital, he had taken his first positive decision: to start smoking again. It was nearly eight years since he had given up, and he had missed it. Now there was no point in protecting his lungs.

The nicotine made his head buzz, denting the pain lurking there from all the brandy he had drunk the night before. His brain was mush: he wouldn’t be able to write that day. Would he be able to write again?

He wouldn’t tell anyone. Not the kids, not his friends. He would have had to tell Lilja of course, but she had left him two years before. A sudden heart attack. No warning, a result of undiagnosed heart disease. He was glad he didn’t have to tell Lilja.

There. Two decisions.

What about the writing? The moment he had asked himself the question whether he could write again, his subconscious had screamed yes, yes he could. But what? What could he write in six months that would make a difference? Two years, maybe he could force himself to come up with the great Icelandic novel, something to rival Halldór Laxness, something to ensure his name was remembered.

But who was he kidding? If he could write that book, he would have done so already.

The cigarette was fast disappearing. His cheeks stung in the cold air. But the wind brought clarity to his confusion.

Moor and the Man wasn’t a bad book. It might even be his best. He would have time to finish that. And maybe a short story or two. But what, in the last few months of his life, could he tell the world?

Suddenly it came to him. He would tell the truth. After forty years he would finally tell the truth.

He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up and scrambled back towards his car. He needed to get back to his desk. There was no time to lose.

Monday 21 September 2009

‘Did you see the news about Julian Lister?’ Vigdís asked Magnus as she arrived for work, dumping her bag by her desk.

‘Yes, poor bastard.’

‘They say they don’t think he’ll make it.’

‘Yeah.’ Magnus had listened to the morning news as well. Lister had been operated on overnight at a hospital in Rouen. The doctors rated his chances as slim.

‘Do you think there’s a connection?’

‘With Óskar?’ Magnus looked at her sharply. ‘I wondered about that.’

‘Some Icelanders would be very happy to see him dead,’ Vigdís said. ‘Not the majority, not even a minority, but it would only take one.’

‘Or two, or three.’

‘You mean Björn and Harpa?’

‘And Ísak, possibly.’

Vigdís raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t have any concrete link between him and the other two.’

‘OK, if not Ísak, maybe somebody else.’

‘So we’re saying there is a bunch of nutters out there who want to shoot bankers and politicians?’

‘Who they think are responsible for the kreppa .’

Magnus and Vigdís looked at each other. ‘If we raise this, the shit really will hit the fan,’ Vigdís said.

‘I know,’ said Magnus.

‘And I mean not just with Baldur. With Thorkell. And the Big Salmon himself.’

‘I know.’

‘We haven’t got any evidence, have we? I mean, none at all.’

‘I know.’

‘So what do we do?’

Magnus had been thinking. ‘Let’s just keep an open mind for now. Baldur told me to go back to the police college today, and I have a lecture to give there at eleven o’clock. But I have an idea.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did the police take surveillance videos during the demonstrations in January?’

‘Sure.’

‘Dig them out for the day Gabríel Örn was killed. See if you can see Harpa. And Björn. See what they did. See who they talked to. Maybe you’ll be able to figure out whether they really did meet then for the first time.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Vigdís.

‘Let me know what you find. In the meantime, how do I get hold of the file on a murder from 1985?’