Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Have you been looking at your surveillance videos?’ Sindri asked. ‘I’ve often wondered what you did with them.’

‘You are seen with Harpa and Björn.’

‘And lots of other people,’ Sindri said. ‘I like to talk to people at these things. You’ve seen the video footage. You know.’

‘So you don’t remember these two?’ Magnus asked.

Sindri paused. ‘Wait a minute. I think I remember Harpa. Dark curly hair? Cute?’

‘That’s right. Have you seen her since then?’

‘No, unfortunately. And I’ve got no idea who this Björn guy is. I went to all the protests. They all merge into one after a while.’

‘Did you go anywhere with them afterwards?’ Magnus asked.

‘No. I was a bit pissed. I came back here, had a bit more to drink. Went to sleep. As I said, it was a shame. Things got a bit more exciting later on, apparently.’

‘Did you come back here alone?’

‘Quite alone.’

‘Harpa and Björn didn’t come with you?’

‘No.’

‘They were seen following you. Where did they leave you?’

‘I really can’t remember,’ said Sindri. He smiled.

A dead end. Sindri knew it. And Magnus knew it.

‘Have you been abroad recently?’ Magnus asked.

‘No,’ said Sindri. ‘Can’t afford it. No one can afford it these days. I went to Germany at the end of last year to publicize my book, but nothing since then.’

‘And where were you on last Tuesday evening?’

‘Um. Let me think.’ Sindri made a show of struggling to remember. But Magnus had the impression that he had an answer already prepared and he was just delaying for effect. That was interesting.

‘I was in a bookshop. Eymundsson’s. A friend of mine was launching his book there. They’ll remember. Why? What am I supposed to have done?’

‘What about yesterday?’

‘Did nothing. Went to the Grand Rokk at lunchtime. Spent most of the day there.’

‘The Grand Rokk?’ said Vigdís. ‘You mean the bar?’

‘Yes. It’s just around the corner.’ Then Sindri’s eyes widened. ‘Wait a minute!’ He jabbed a finger at Magnus. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you. The Grand Rokk.’

‘Possibly,’ said Magnus.

‘Not possibly. Certainly. You’re the guy who lived in America, aren’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Last time I saw you, you were pissed out of your head.’

Vigdís’s eyes darted to Magnus and then back at Sindri.

‘Did anyone see you there yesterday?’ she asked.

Sindri ignored her. ‘I thought you had a bit of an American accent.’ He smiled. ‘“Who loves ya baby?” Isn’t that what Kojak says?’ He raised his thumb and index finger in the sign of a revolver being cocked. ‘“Make my day.”’

Magnus leaped to his feet, kicking back his chair. With two strides he was on Sindri, grabbing him around the collar. Sindri was heavy but Magnus was strong. He wrenched the big man out of his chair and shoved him against the wall.

‘Listen, asshole,’ he said in English. ‘You know what happened to Óskar Gunnarsson and Gabríel Örn Bergsson. And probably Julian Lister as well. Now it seems to me you’ve got a choice to make. Whether you spend the rest of your life in a French jail or a British one. It’s just a shame I can’t find a space for you in Cedar Junction back home. You’d enjoy that.’

Magnus saw the fear in Sindri’s eyes.

He let him go. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said.

It was a short distance from Sindri’s flat to police headquarters, which was at the eastern end of Hverfisgata opposite the bus station. Magnus was driving.

‘That’s not normally the way we conduct interviews here in Iceland,’ Vigdís said.

‘Maybe you should,’ said Magnus.

‘The Grand Rokk is a bit of a dive, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t go there often.’

They drove on in silence.

‘If you have a problem, I know people you can talk to,’ Vigdís said.

‘Why is it that if a guy has a drink on a Tuesday night, he’s an alcoholic, but if he gets totally shit-faced on a Friday, he’s just being sociable?’

‘I’m just saying,’ said Vigdís.

And that was all either of them said until they were back in the station.

Harpa served Klara, who was a regular customer, and partial to Dísa’s vínarbraud . She was well into her seventies, and came in at about the same time every day for a slice. She liked to take her time over the purchase and usually Harpa was happy to chat, but this time she was distracted, only half listening.

She was pleased with how firm she had been with Frikki. But the more she thought about it, the more she worried that the kid might have a point. She was sure that Björn wasn’t involved in any way with Óskar’s death, or with Lister’s. She had no idea about Ísak. But Sindri?

For years the man had publicly espoused violence to defeat capitalism. But then for years he had done nothing about it, as far as Harpa had heard. Icelanders loved to talk politics, to complain, to demand change, but they didn’t resort to violence, even the anarchists. Harpa guessed that the big man was all talk.

But perhaps having been involved in one killing it became easier to kill again? There was no doubt that there was a possible link between Óskar and Julian Lister, and Gabríel Örn for that matter, and that was responsibility for the kreppa . And maybe there would be another death soon.

No. It was nothing to do with her. She should do what she had told Frikki to do, keep quiet and forget it.

Klara finally left and Harpa busied herself with rearranging the pastries under the counter. Forget it? She couldn’t forget it. She felt guilty enough about the death of Gabríel Örn. Frikki was right, she wouldn’t be able to face the guilt if someone else was murdered and it turned out that the murderer was Sindri.

Perhaps she should speak to Björn. But she already knew what he would say. He would discourage her, urge her to keep quiet, keep a low profile, just as she had urged Frikki.

At least she could trust him. There was no chance that he had shot Óskar or Julian Lister. The Polish woman was being ridiculous. What did she think, that he had left her house the previous week and gone straight to the airport instead of back to Grundarfjördur? Ridiculous. He’d need passport, tickets, money for a start.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her ears begin to sing. She felt faint and slipped back against the wall, dropping the tray of pastries she was carrying with a clatter.

No. No, no, no, no, no! She couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it.

‘What is it Harpa? Are you OK?’

She scarcely felt Dísa’s hand on her shoulder, or heard her concerned voice.

She was thinking about what she had noticed sticking out of the pocket of Björn’s light blue coat when he had stayed with her that night.

An electric-blue Icelandic passport.

MAGNUS HAD JUST got back to his desk when his phone rang. ‘Magnus, it’s Sharon.’

‘Did you get the photo?’

‘Yeah. I got a good shot. I’m on my way to the station to print off a copy to show to Gunnarsson’s neighbour.’

Magnus’s pulse quickened. Matching a description was one thing, but a positive ID would be the first real evidence of a link between Óskar’s murder and Gabríel Örn’s death.

‘If you don’t get a good print, we’ve probably got a mugshot in our database here. Did you ask Ísak where he was yesterday?’

‘That’s why I am calling. I’m at the chaplain’s office in the Icelandic Embassy, checking out Ísak’s story. He said he was at the Icelandic Church service in the morning. The chaplain confirms it.’

‘Damn.’