Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘Oh, my poor love,’ he said, clasping her hand in his. ‘I thought something had happened last January. I had no idea it was this bad.’

‘I know. Can you forgive me?’ She looked deep into those strong hard blue eyes. It was a lot to ask her father. He had always loved her, she knew that, but he had high standards for his daughter and he had always been quick to chastise her if she failed him. That was one of the reasons for her success at school and university and then as a banker, the main reason: she didn’t want to disappoint him.

And now she was telling him she had killed someone.

The blue eyes crinkled. ‘Forgive you for what? It was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill him, did you? And the bastard deserved a good thrashing – I should have done it myself.’

‘But he died, Dad, he died!’

‘Yes, well. I won’t say he deserved it. But I will say it was not your fault. It was a horrible accident. You must remember that.’ He gripped her hand.

‘Thanks,’ she said smiling, the relief running through her. She knew it was only temporary, but it did feel very good to have the support of her father. ‘But what should I do now?’

‘Well. I wouldn’t tell your mother.’

‘No,’ said Harpa. Her mother was a much stricter moralist than her father. That really would be pushing it. ‘But I’m worried, Dad. What if Frikki is right? What if there is another banker about to be shot? I could never live with myself.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Einar muttered. ‘Perhaps the bastards do deserve it. And anyway, you’re not responsible.’

‘If I don’t say anything, I am,’ Harpa said.

‘So what are you thinking of doing? Going to the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t do that, Harpa. They’ll find out about the whole Gabríel Örn business. You’ll end up in jail. I don’t want my only daughter going to jail, especially for something that isn’t her fault. And what about Markús? I mean we would look after him, but he needs his mother.’

‘I know,’ said Harpa. A tear leaked out of her eye again. And another one.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Einar spoke. ‘I have an idea,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘You could just be imagining all this. Björn might be telling the truth. About being out fishing when those men were shot.’

‘But what about the passport? I’m convinced he was lying about that.’

Einar shrugged. ‘Maybe. But we can check up on the fishing boat easily enough. I know the harbourmaster at Grundarfjördur. He would know whether Björn was out, or he would know who to ask to find out.’

Harpa brightened. Maybe, just maybe, Björn was telling the truth. Suddenly the prospect, which had seemed so distant a moment ago, seemed possible. ‘Could you go up there and talk to him?’

‘No need to do that. I can phone him. Now what precise days are we talking about?’

‘OK,’ Harpa said. She stood up to look at the calendar on the wall. ‘Óskar was shot on the night of Tuesday the fifteenth. And Julian Lister was yesterday, of course.’

‘Did you speak to Björn yesterday?’

‘No. Until this evening, the last time I spoke to him was when he was down here last week. That was last Thursday. I thought he had been out at sea since then.’

‘OK. I’ll check. And once we have found out whether Björn is telling the truth, then we can figure out what to do.’

‘Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.’

Sindri lit another cigarette and stared again at the blank screen of his computer. There were sheets of paper covered with words all around the rickety table he used as a desk, but the words were not new.

He hadn’t written anything in a week. Which was hardly surprising. He desperately wanted to put himself out of his misery and go to the Grand Rokk. But now more than ever he had to keep a clear head.

The doorbell rang. He took a quick puff of his cigarette and braced himself. The police again, most likely. He knew they would be coming back.

But when he opened the door, it was his sister-in-law who was standing there.

Sindri grinned. ‘Freyja! Come in, come in!’

He kissed her on the cheek and led her into his flat.

‘Sorry about the mess. I’m in the middle of working. Can I get you some coffee?’

‘I’d love some.’

Freyja was dressed as a city girl in a black trouser suit, and her blonde curly hair was pulled back fiercely in a ponytail. But her cheeks had the pink bloom of the fells.

‘You didn’t tell me you were coming. What brings you to Reykjavík?’

‘We got an offer for the farm over the weekend,’ said Freyja. ‘A good one. It’s from the cousin of a neighbour. He’s a farmer’s son, and he wants to own his own place. Remarkably, he seems to have enough cash to buy it.’

Sindri frowned. ‘I suppose that’s good news. Are you going to take it?’

‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘It’s the only serious offer we’ve received. And it’s also the only way we have of paying off the debt.’

‘You could tell the bank to stuff it,’ said Sindri. ‘Stay on the farm. Let them try to evict you. You know how difficult the government is making it for banks to take possession of property these days.’

‘Those are just temporary measures,’ Freyja said. ‘The debt isn’t going to go away until I pay it off. This way I pay it off and we all get on with our lives.’

They sat in silence for a moment staring at their coffee. Sindri puffed at his cigarette. It was the farm of his childhood they were talking about, a property that had first been bought by his great-grandfather a century before. But that wasn’t what got to him. It was Freyja and her children. His brother Matti’s broken family.

‘So you’re moving to Reykjavík?’ he asked.

‘We’ll have to,’ said Freyja. ‘I need to work.’

‘Have you been to see your brother?’ Sindri asked, remembering that he had offered Freyja a job.

‘Yes. But nothing doing. Apparently he had to fire three people last week, so he can’t be seen to be taking someone new on. Like me.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Ask around. That’s why I’m here. Do you know anyone who might be looking to hire someone?’

‘Sorry,’ said Sindri. He didn’t have to think very hard. A number of his friends who survived from casual temporary jobs were looking. He was lucky he still had some of the royalties from his book left, and the authors’ stipend that the Ministry of Education, Science and Culture in Iceland was still paying out to writers.

‘I know I don’t have any direct qualifications,’ Freyja said. ‘But I can work hard. I’m strong. I’m good with figures. I’m honest.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sindri, smiling. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment. But I just don’t think there is anything out there.’

‘I could be a waitress. Shop assistant. Cleaner, even.’

‘Sorry.’ Sindri shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of guy you need to talk to about the world of work.’

‘No,’ said Freyja, and Sindri thought he caught a touch of contempt in the glance she gave him.

‘Where will you live?’

Freyja sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You can sleep on my floor if you like. All of you.’

Freyja laughed as she glanced around the mess and grime of the flat. ‘I hope it won’t come to that.’

The laughter died. They both knew it might.

‘Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t buy the farm,’ Sindri said. And he meant it. He would have done if he could, it would have been the least he could do to make up for his brother’s actions. ‘I just don’t have the money.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ said Freyja. ‘Not that I’d expect you to do anything like that. But I sometimes wonder…’