Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

He looked worried. ‘I thought you were going to the library,’ he said.

‘I am. What’s up?’

He pushed past her on his way to his room. ‘It’s Mum. I just got a call from Dad. She’s getting worse.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Sophie, following him. She knew all about his mother’s cancer. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m going back to Iceland,’ Zak said, pulling a bag out of his wardrobe.

‘When? Now?’

‘Yeah. I might get a flight today if I hurry.’

‘Is it that bad? I mean, is this, like…’ Sophie couldn’t bring herself to say ‘the end’.

‘I don’t know, Soph, I really don’t know. It might be. I’ve got to get home.’

He was looking away from her as he said this.

‘Come here,’ said Sophie, holding out her arms. He ignored her. ‘Come on.’

Slowly, reluctantly, he stood up and let her hug him. Sophie was mildly offended as he pushed her away. Sometimes he just put up barriers and she didn’t like it. But how could she know what it was like to have your mother die?

She watched him pack. The silence was awkward. She was aware that he really didn’t want to talk about his mother. ‘They reckon there’s a chance Lister’s going to make it after all,’ she said. ‘I just heard it on the radio.’

‘Pity,’ said Zak.

‘You don’t really mean that!’ said Sophie, shocked. ‘I know he called you all a bunch of terrorists, but he’s not a bad man.’

‘So you say,’ said Zak. ‘There’s a whole country that he bankrupted that might disagree.’

Sophie took a deep breath. She had never seen Zak so tense. She wanted so badly to reach out and comfort him.

The policewoman’s visit troubled her. She considered asking him about it again, but rejected the idea. It would only upset him more. She watched helplessly as he finished his packing. He was very quick. She felt an irrational dread overwhelm her, as though he were leaving her for good.

‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know. I won’t know until I see how bad she really is.’

‘Well, let me know once you see her. Have you told the uni?’

‘Oh, I’ll do that later. Actually, could you tell McGregor for me? I’ll talk to him myself in the next day or two.’

Dr McGregor was head of the Politics Faculty.

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Ten minutes later Zak was gone. Sophie sat at the kitchen table and burst into tears.

DÍSA SENT HARPA home. The fresh air invigorated her as she hurried along the shore of the bay. To her right a small dark cloud was rolling over the Hallgrímskirkja and unloading its contents on the city centre. An easterly breeze was blowing the cloud towards Seltjarnarnes.

She played over what she would say to Björn. She had to call him. It was a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.

She beat the cloud home by a couple of minutes, made herself a cup of coffee and dialled Björn’s number. She hoped he wasn’t out at sea, she needed to get this over and done with.

He answered on the second ring.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said.

‘Oh, hi.’ He sounded distracted.

‘Björn, I… I need to talk to you.’

‘OK?’

‘You remember the kid who was with us that night in Sindri’s flat? A boy named Frikki?’

‘Yes, of course I remember him.’

‘Well he came into the bakery the other day, with his girlfriend. And then they came back again today. He seems to think that Sindri is behind Óskar’s death. And the shooting of the British Chancellor of the Exchequer.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why?’

‘He says that Sindri was talking about taking real action against the bankers and against the people who caused the kreppa .’

‘Yes, but he was drunk. We all were.’

Harpa swallowed. ‘And he said that you might be involved.’

‘Me? How? They were shot abroad, weren’t they?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harpa. ‘But he said, or rather his girlfriend said, that you might have flown over to London and France when you told me you were going out on a fishing boat.’

‘Oh, Harpa, that’s just ridiculous!’

And Harpa agreed. When she said it out loud it did sound ridiculous. ‘That’s what I told them.’

‘Good. They’re not going to go to the police or anything, are they?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But…’

‘But what?’

Harpa took a deep breath. Until now she hadn’t voiced aloud her own distrust of Björn. She had never shown any mistrust of him. Ever. But now she had to.

‘Björn. Why did you have your passport with you when you came down to see me last week?’

‘What?’

‘Why did you have your passport? I saw it. In your jacket pocket.’

‘You’re not telling me you believe them?’

‘No. I just want to know about your passport.’

‘Well. Um. I needed it.’

‘To go abroad?’

‘No. For identification purposes. The following morning I had an appointment to see a bank in Reykjavík about a loan to buy a boat.’ His voice was speeding up and gaining in confidence.

Just as if he had stumbled on a good story made up on the spot.

‘Which bank?’

‘Um. Kaupthing.’

‘But they don’t ask for passport ID, do they?’

‘No, I thought it was strange. New rules, probably. Tightening up.’

This sounded all wrong to Harpa. ‘So then you went out on a boat for the next few days?’

‘Yes. I told you.’

‘Whose boat?’

‘Hey, Harpa, I don’t need to justify myself to you. Surely you don’t believe this kid, do you? Do you?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know, Björn.’

‘What is this, Harpa?’ Anger was rising in his voice.

‘OK,’ said Harpa. ‘OK. I’ll ask you this question once and then I’ll shut up. Were you involved in the shooting of Óskar? And Julian Lister?’

Silence.

‘Björn?’

‘No. No Harpa, I was not. I didn’t shoot either of them. Don’t you believe me?’

Harpa hung up.

Her phone rang. She didn’t answer it. She had slumped to the floor of the kitchen, her back against a cupboard and she was sobbing.

No. She didn’t believe him.

She was still sitting there ten minutes later when the door opened.

‘Harpa?’

‘Mummy?’

She looked up to see her father and her son staring at her, both of them full of concern.

‘Mummy, did you fall over?’

Harpa began to pull herself to her feet. Einar gave her his hand. Markús ran to her and gave her a hug. It felt good.

Einar gently suggested the boy go into the living room to watch TV.

‘Harpa, what’s wrong?’ he said.

‘Oh, Dad. Dad, I’m in such trouble.’

‘Come here.’ He enveloped her in his strong fisherman’s arms. His chest was broad and he smelled of tobacco. Usually she hated the smell of cigarettes, but on him it reminded her of her child-hood, the joy of meeting him back from the sea. Then the tobacco had been mixed with fish. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’ He smiled. ‘On a chair, not the floor.’

Harpa sat at the kitchen table. She wanted to talk, she was desperate to talk. And now she no longer had Björn to talk to. What the hell? So she told him.

She started with the demonstration and meeting up in Sindri’s flat. She told him about Frikki’s suspicions that Sindri and Björn were responsible for the shooting of Óskar and Julian Lister. She told him about Björn’s denial and how she didn’t believe it.

And then, because otherwise the whole story didn’t make sense, and because it was such a relief to unburden herself, she told him about luring out Gabríel Örn that night, and about how he died. She told him everything, except the relationship between her and Óskar and between his grandson and the banker.