Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Which case?’

‘Benedikt Jóhannesson.’

‘The writer?’

‘Yes. Do you know anything about it?’

‘I was only a kid at the time. But we studied it at police college. Stabbed in his home, I think. The crime was never solved.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Has this got a connection to Óskar?’

‘Not really.’

Vigdís frowned. Magnus remained impassive. Vigdís decided not to push it. ‘It won’t be scanned on to the system, but Records will have the original file buried away somewhere. It will probably take them a while to locate it.’

‘Thanks, Vigdís.’

While Vigdís made some calls to rustle up the surveillance video, Magnus composed an e-mail to one of his buddies in the Homicide Unit in Boston, asking to check with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services for immigration information for July 1996. Then he called Records.

Árni breezed in. ‘Morning, Magnús. Good weekend? All quiet here?’

‘Talk to Vigdís,’ Magnus said. ‘You’ve got some work to do.’

Ísak popped the toast out of the toaster, and spread on butter and marmalade. It was an English habit that was growing on him. The house off the Mile End Road which he shared with four other students ran on toast. And instant coffee. The kettle boiled and Ísak made himself a cup.

‘Hey.’

He turned to see his girlfriend Sophie slope into the small kitchen in pyjama bottoms and an old Save Darfur T-shirt.

‘I thought you didn’t have any lectures until twelve?’

‘I decided I really have to go to the library,’ she said. ‘I can’t put it off any longer.’ She perched herself on his lap and kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and kissed him again, deeper.

Ísak smiled and let his hand brush over her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

She left it there for a moment, but then she extricated herself and stood up. ‘No. Discipline. I need discipline.’ She opened the cupboard and started rummaging around, looking for bread. Ísak had finished off the loaf. ‘Do you want another slice of toast, Zak?’

‘Yeah, OK. Thanks.’

The doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Sophie. The bell rang again. ‘All right, all right. You’ll wake everyone up,’ she complained, but in a voice too quiet for whoever was outside to hear.

Ísak heard the door open.

‘Police,’ an authoritative female voice said. ‘Detective Sergeant Piper from Kensington CID. Is Ísak Samúelsson here?’

Ísak tensed.

‘Er. I don’t know,’ said Sophie, taken aback.

‘It’s OK, Sophie,’ Ísak said, moving into the hallway. ‘Come in.’ He led the detective into the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Can I make you some coffee?’

‘No thanks,’ Sergeant Piper said, taking the chair Sophie had been occupying.

Sophie sat down next to her and scowled.

‘What is this about?’ Ísak asked, as coolly as he could.

‘Do you mind if I talk to Ísak alone?’ Piper said to Sophie.

‘I bloody well do,’ said Sophie, suddenly waking up. ‘Like, where do you get off? This is our kitchen.’

Piper sighed.

‘It’s OK, Soph,’ said Ísak. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure it won’t take long.’

‘All right,’ said Sophie, grumpily. ‘But I want my toast.’

After she had left the room, Ísak smiled. ‘Sorry about that. We’re doing a course on European Human Rights at the moment. And Sophie is a member of Amnesty. She gets excited about that kind of thing.’

‘Breakfast is important,’ said Piper with a smile. ‘I’d like to ask you about last week.’

‘I was in Reykjavík,’ said Ísak.

‘We know.’

‘This is about Óskar Gunnarsson, isn’t it?’ said Ísak. ‘My mother told me the police in Iceland had been asking about me.’

Piper asked Ísak a series of questions about what he had done the previous week. Ísak answered clearly and calmly. He had been out with some old friends from high school on Wednesday night, otherwise not much. Piper took down flight times, names and addresses.

‘Did you know Óskar Gunnarsson?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Ísak. ‘I mean I know who he was. But I’ve never met him.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Piper, leaning forward.

‘I guess I saw him at the annual Thorrablót of the Icelandic Society here in London,’ Ísak said. ‘But I didn’t talk to him.’

‘Thorrablót?’

‘It’s a winter festival. A big feast – lots of traditional food. You know, sheep’s heads, whale blubber, rams’ testicles, rotted shark. It’s a big deal for Icelanders.’

‘Sounds revolting.’

‘It’s an acquired taste. Actually, the food is usually pretty good at the London one.’

Piper seemed to be examining Ísak closely. ‘You didn’t try to deliver something to him a couple of weeks ago? The Friday before last?’

‘Deliver something?’

‘Yes. A witness saw someone matching your description going from house to house in Onslow Gardens looking for Gunnarsson’s address?’

‘That wasn’t me.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ísak nodded. ‘I’m absolutely sure.’

Piper waited. Neither she nor Ísak said anything for a long moment. Then she stood up. ‘OK, that’s all for now. Thank you for answering my questions.’

Ísak stood up. ‘No problem.’

‘Are you going in to college today?’

‘I’ve got a lecture in an hour or so. I’ll have to leave soon.’

Piper handed Ísak a card. ‘Well, if you do remember anything about Óskar Gunnarsson, give me a call.’

Magnus had just turned off the main road out of Reykjavík into Árbaer where the National Police College was located, when his phone rang. He picked it up.

‘Magnus, it’s Sharon.’

‘Hi. How are you doing?’

‘I just spoke to your friend Ísak.’

‘And?’

‘And he was in Reykjavík last week. He gave me some names and numbers of who he saw there. Basically he stayed at home most of the time, but went out on Wednesday night.’

‘E-mail the names to me, we’ll check them out,’ said Magnus. ‘Did he say why he came home?’

‘He said things were getting on top of him at uni, he needed to chill.’

‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Magnus. ‘It’s too convenient. Almost as if he was giving himself an alibi.’

‘Possibly,’ Sharon said. ‘There is something else.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘He fits the description we have of the courier who was looking for Gunnarsson’s house. Early twenties, five nine, broad face, blue eyes, dimple on his chin.’

‘Interesting,’ Magnus said. ‘Can you get a firm ID?’

‘I’m outside his house now. He’s got to go to a lecture pretty soon, so I’ll get a photo. Show it to our witness. She’s on the ball; if it’s him she’ll tell us.’

‘Excellent. Um… Sharon?’

‘Yes?’

Magnus took a deep breath. ‘Is there any chance you can talk to him again?’

‘I suppose so. I can grab him after he comes out, once I’ve got his photo.’

‘Could you ask him where he was yesterday? Check that he was in London.’

‘Why?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘You mean Julian Lister?’

‘Maybe,’ said Magnus

‘You think he might have shot Lister?’

‘Not really. It’s an outside possibility. You heard how unpopular Lister is in Iceland when you were over here.’

‘Have you got any evidence?’

‘No. None at all. It’s only a hunch, not even that. Please don’t mention it to anyone else. It’s just that if it turned out our student friend went to France for the weekend, that would be interesting.’

‘I’ll say.’ Sharon paused. ‘Look, if there is any chance there is an Icelandic angle, I’m going to have to tell someone.’